


Keystone

by EagleofMasyaf (roelani), TheSwordKing



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, But so are the angels, Cas is clueless, Crowley is a dick, Fix-It, M/M, Mentions of hell, Mild Gore, Pie, Sam is adorable, Wingfic, Wordcount: Over 150.000, Work In Progress, magic made them do it but not really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2017-10-30 11:14:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 243,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roelani/pseuds/EagleofMasyaf, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSwordKing/pseuds/TheSwordKing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A keystone is the wedge-shaped stone piece at the apex of a masonry vault or arch, which is the final piece placed during construction and locks all the stones into position, allowing the arch to bear weight.The keystones are but another hunt, a step towards something bigger and Dean finds his own support amidst a myriad of others</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Feathers and Mirrors

**Author's Note:**

> This is an RP fic between EagleofMasyaf and myself. Eagle plays Dean, Sam, and Crowley. I play Castiel, Bobby, and that vast majority of the angels that turn up. More tags will be added as we add more chapters. This is set mid-season 6 right after Sam gets his soul back.

Castiel wasn't the type to look a gift horse in the mouth as the human saying went. Civil war was a difficult thing and in heaven it seemed twice as hard. Because it was literally a war of brothers, everyone involved was related and from the start it was little more than a big family spat. And that saddened him greatly; he hated having to fight his family.

But he couldn't back down because if he did Raphael would release Michael and Lucifer and the world would end. He'd worked too hard to stop the apocalypse to simply stand down and allow that to happen. Castiel had avoided trying to garner favour with his more powerful brothers that hadn't joined either side of the war so not to appear rude to them. 

But Raphael wasn't above trying to pressure the other archangels into joining his side. Predictably he went for the one that was his equal in power first. Castiel hadn't been in heaven when things went down but when he returned the host was afire with whispers and news that Raphael was in hiding, and Azrael was waiting for him in his favoured Eden.

"Castiel, you've no doubt heard Raphael and I have had a disagreement," Azrael had said evenly. "He attempted to convince me that I need to either kneel or die. I've chosen to stand with you instead. You know my opinions on this war and what you both want to do at the end of this thing but as long as Raphael is still giving me the same offer I will stand with you."

Castiel had been taken back by the announcement but not completely surprised. The addition of an archangel to his forces evened things out. It brought every battle to a standstill. So Castiel had no option other than to be grateful. Which, he was because it had meant less of his brothers and sisters were dying. It also meant he had more time to watch over the Winchesters. 

"Castiel, you should take a break from all this," Azrael said, appearing behind him as he was inclined to do. "You've been fighting up here nonstop for over a year now. Take a break, go play with your pets for a while."

"They are not pets, Azrael. But you have a point; I think I would enjoy a break from all this... turmoil." Castiel didn't like the idea of simply leaving his post to go spend time with his friends. Because the Winchesters were his friends despite all their demands for his aid and lack of thanks, he enjoyed helping them with their mundane problems.

"Good, then off you go." Azrael had always had a strange sense of humour and he unrepentantly shoved Castiel out of heaven and down to earth where Sam and Dean were.

He stumbled into the living room of Bobby's cabin exactly like he'd been shoved bodily into the room. Standing up straight and adjusting his trench coat, Castiel attempted to look like he hadn't just stumbled into the room from nowhere. "Hello, Sam, Dean," he said, trying to look normal.

"Would you -stop- that?"

"Stop what?"

"That." An accusing finger pointed at the table where one of Dean's hands rested. He managed a slight quirk of his brows at his brother.

"Stop having hands?"

"Stop drumming your fingers on the table, Dean, I can't -concentrate-. You even aware how annoying it is to have someon--You're not even listening," Sam huffed, closing his laptop and getting up to swipe a beer from Bobby's fridge.

"'Course I'm not listening. I'm on edge, man. I've been on edge since everything went to shit with heaven and hell trying to swallow us all up." Dean leaned back into the sofa, cursing under his breath, eyes following Sam warily. "And -nothing- has happened so far. You can't tell me that's a good sign. When is that ever a good sign?" He drummed his fingers against the wooden table again for a bit, realized Sam was glaring at him and stopped, drumming against his own thigh instead.

"So... Got something? Some calamity, some catastrophe, some monster swallowing people up and leaving bits behind? Hell, even simple freak weather would help," he eventually voiced after downing nearly half his beer.

Sam shook his head. "No, nothing. You're right, it's been... quiet."

They shared a look of silent and untold dread for a few seconds and Dean saw his own worries briefly mirrored in Sam's face; 'quiet' was never a good thing. Quiet meant someone was either preparing something big or laying so low they'd probably already done some unknown nasty and weren't risking showing their faces for when the world finally caught on. 

"Well, whatever's going on, I'm sure we'll find out eventually. We always do." He raised his half-empty beer towards Sam, who shook his head and sent him a fairly good-natured eye roll before clinking his own beer against Dean's.

"You're probably right, unfortunately," Sam answered, casting one last, longing look at his laptop before flopping down into the elderly plush chair besides the couch. 

Dean shrugged, fished between the cushions for the remote, found a half eaten chip and frowned, raising his head to catch sight of a familiar shape just as Castiel drew himself up and adjusted his trench coat. "And speak of the devil... Hey Cas. Don't say anything. We have quiet. Let's have this quiet last, this time, huh?"

He tilted his head, Sam mimicking his movement in a way that would have been funny if he wasn't so damned worried, and properly -looked- at the sudden angel. "Trip down here a bit rough, or what?"

Castiel finished adjusting his coat and rolled his shoulders. "Something like that," he said, looking around the room warily. He was pleased to find both of the brothers in good health and seemingly good spirits if Dean's quip was anything to go off of. He hadn't had a lot of time to check on them and in all honesty wasn't even sure how Azrael had known where they were. 

"The ride can get a bit bumpy when you've been pushed." Damnation, it would turn out that Azrael had followed him down and was standing right behind him. Azrael's vessel was smaller than his own and easily hid behind him. Castiel frowned and moved aside so the boys could see Azrael.

Azrael--despite his tiny vessel--was vibrating with some sort of deep seated amusement. The archangel absently adjusted his neat white suit jacket and smiled. His vessel was female and on the short end of average human female height, with a shock of copper colored hair that was tumbled into one of his bright blue eyes. He looked incredibly harmless for an archangel. 

"So these are the Winchesters,"Azrael said, looking between the two brothers. "Do these pets of yours do tricks, Castiel?"

"Azrael, they are not pets." He tried to keep his tone even but a hint of irritation had slipped into it. "Sam, Dean, this is Azrael. Azrael you've heard of the Winchesters." He gestured to each Winchester in turn as he introduced them.

Azrael simply smirked and looked incredibly pleased with himself. "I sent Castiel down here because he's run himself into the ground in heaven and if he's down here, Raphael will be more focused on me than our fearless leader here." He rolled his vessel's hands artfully, popping the joints before hunting in his breast pocket and pulling a sucker out, which he then unwrapped and stuck in his mouth with a pleased sound. "So you two gibbons get to be distracting or something."

Castiel found himself frowning at Azrael's casual way of ordering his friends around. Most of the other angels thought his attachment to the Winchesters was closer to the attachment one would feel for pets and found it amusing to tease him about it. The casual use of terms that were clearly derogatory still irked him. But he couldn't afford to insult Azrael, and they both knew it. 

"I'm sure they have better things to do than to entertain me, Azrael," he said, still frowning. "I still believe this 'vacation' or whatever you want to call it is needless."

"Doesn't matter, you're staying here until I've chased Raphael around heaven a few times and reminded him of a few things," Azrael said with one hand on his hip, wagging the other in Castiel's nose.

"Pushed? How can you be pushed downsta--" Sam was interrupted even as Dean got to his feet, both men staring in some amount of confusion as the distinctive -feel- of an angel popping into existence nearby dragged across both of their senses for the second time in just as many minutes. Castiel stepped aside and Dean couldn't help but quirk an eyebrow at the stranger who approached. 

Gorgeous, diminutive and wearing the sort of clothes he'd never seen before off a damned runway show--though he'd never in his life admit to ever following any of that nonsense, of course, it was worse than the damned soaps he'd been caught watching--the woman made Castiel look positively scruffy by comparison. She had the air of someone very used to getting her way, and, judging by the tense set of Castiel's shoulders, of someone who could probably crush both he and Sam with a thought.

Cas introduced them and Sam stepped forward, his face lighting up considerably. "Azrael? Azrael the archangel of Death?"

Dean shot his brother a -look- and Sam withered a bit, turning back towards him as the two angels bickered. "Really, Sammy? The archangel o' Death? Think we should maybe be a -tad- more careful?"

"This one seems to be on our side, Dean. Well, on Castiel's side, anyway. I think it's about time we finally started trying to make friends before making enemies. What's wrong with just... trying to be civil?" his brother hissed back quietly.

Dean shook his head, half tempted to just grab Sam by the collar and go. How many times already had they gotten bit in the ass by so-called allies? And even Castiel seemed wary of this one; it was easy enough to see the difference in the angel. When he was alone with them and untroubled, he could almost pass as human, though maybe a slightly slow and naive one. 

Dean could recognize Castiel's 'business' face when he saw it, and he wasn't certain at all he was going to like the whole story behind whatever the hell was happening upstairs now. 

"Civil? All the archangels we've met so far have been..." he started, gesturing minutely towards his brother. Somehow his eyes strayed back to this newcomer angel with the fiery red hair and he had to fight not to swallow his own tongue as she flourished a sucker from somewhere on her person and promptly stuck it between her lips.

And it would have been perfect and everything he could dream of if she hadn't opened her mouth right after that and called both he and Sammy 'gibbons'.

"... total dickheads, yeah," he finished under his breath while Sam shuffled closer and firmly elbowed him in the side.

"Vacation? Maybe laying low for a while isn't such a bad thing, Cas," Dean's brother continued. "I mean, we've been combing the place clean and it's looking pretty... tranquil. If there ever was a time to regroup, this might well be it."

Dean snorted, guzzled down the rest of his beer and -stared- incredulously at his brother. "Oh, so we're heaven's babysitters now?" He dumped his empty bottle back on the low table and pointed a finger in Castiel's direction, trying his best not to openly gawk at the smaller angel at his side. "Fine. But you aren't driving my car. I don't care where we go. No driving."

Azrael chuckled as Sam named him and twisted the sucker in his mouth absently. "That would in fact be me," he answered, giving a short and somehow mocking bow. "You are right; I am on dear Castiel's side." He clapped Castiel cheerfully on the shoulder and wandered past the other angel and further into the room. It was clear from the way he walked his vessel was wearing some sort of heel. 

Castiel tracked his more powerful sibling's movements as Azrael wandered within touching distance of Dean and Sam and looked them both over with a critical eye. His gaze held something between interest and the manner one would look over livestock. "Hmmm, interesting," he said, cocking his head to the side and looking up at them both in a manner that still seemed to convey hauteur. 

Castiel fidgeted and hoped that neither Dean nor Sam did something to provoke Azrael's rather short temper. He doubted Azrael would permanently injure either Winchester but he wasn't one to tempt fate. And he knew Azrael may look harmless in his vessel but he was anything but harmless. Castiel knew he was playing with fire by accepting Azrael's aid but there was no other way to handle Raphael.

Azrael smirked slightly and spun the sucker around in his mouth for a long moment before turning and walking back over to Castiel's side. "Have fun down here, brother dear," he said with another chuckle as he turned to face the Winchesters again. "You two gibbons better behave," he added with another admonishing finger waggle at them both and what looked like a very flirtatious wink at Dean before he vanished with rush of air as angels tended to do.

Castiel felt his shoulders slump as Azrael left and he sighed. "I apologize for Azrael's behavior...." he muttered, looking between the brothers. "Azrael has never had much patience for humans. But Azrael is a great assent in my fight with Raphael."

He frowned slightly. "We don't have to go anywhere, Dean. And if I'm interrupting your down time I will find elsewhere to go," he said with a shrug. He was sure there were places on the planet he could find to hold his attention while Azrael and Raphael had their little stand-off in heaven. He would have much rather been with Sam and Dean than elsewhere, but if he wasn't welcome he was happy to leave.

Dean shrank back into the couch as Azrael stepped closer, watching her warily; he knew Sam was doing the same, practically felt his brother tense from across the room, and managed to meet her gaze even as she stared down her nose--and it was a very fine nose, really--at him. He fought the urge not to leer back on simple principle alone but either she didn't care two shits about his reaction or it somehow goaded her on because the little minx did something completely unfair to the candy she had in her mouth.

"I guess we are interesting, huh? For gibbons, I mean," he shot back as she turned away.

Sam turned back to him with a clear frown on his face and Dean tried to convey, through a half-hearted shrug, that this was as close to 'making friends' as he was going to get today.

Happily the woman poofed into nothingness sooner rather than later. Dean turned towards Castiel, gesturing wildly with one hand. "I'm getting that, yeah. Strangely none of you angels have been very patient so far. You'd think a race of near immortals would've gotten the hang of it by now," he voiced as Sam sighed and stood up.

"So you've got an ally? This Azrael is powerful enough to stand against Raphael? More... powerful than you?" Sam asked, crossing back over to the table and opening up his laptop again. Even from his seat on the couch Dean could see him go straight back into research mode, digging up into the history of this newcomer.

"She seemed more sass than power from where I sat," he muttered under his breath, also getting up with a low sigh. "And no, Cas, you're not interrupting anything. This isn't downtime, it's just us sitting on our asses wondering what the hell we should be doing."

He wandered over into the kitchen again, trying to remember if Castiel had ever accepted a drink before; they'd usually mostly met the angel in frenzied circumstances. What the hell was the accepted polite way of entertaining an angel? Offer up blessed wine served by naked flying babies? The image made him snort as he reached into the fridge, pulled out another two cold ones and walked back the short distance into the shabby, dimly-lit den of Bobby's cabin.

He only had beer anyway.

"Here. If you're gonna sit on your ass with us, might as well get comfy. What's happening up there, anyway, that you got sent to the wings for this one?" he chortled as he offered Castiel a beer, waving it slightly in the hope that the angel wouldn't be his usual dense self and just stare at it blankly.

Castiel cleared his throat and sat down, he didn't need to sit but it was only polite to do so. "Azrael is..." He licked his lips and thought. "Azrael is more powerful than I am currently, yes. He and Raphael are roughly equal in power. So for the time being they are just circling each other trying to be as intimidating as possible."

"Azrael has never really been friendly with anyone in the host. You would call him a black sheep, I suppose. And honestly he's only siding with me to spite Raphael, which suits me just fine really." He clasped his fingers in front of him. He didn't really want to explain more about Azrael but he knew if either of the Winchesters asked he would end up answering.

He looked up at Dean as the man offered him a beer then back down at the dark glass bottle. He really didn't need to consume human food or drink like he had when he'd been fallen. But he got the impression that it was rude to refuse and took the bottle. "Thank you," he said, inspecting the bottle for a moment before twisting the cap and opening it. 

"Azrael seems to think that if I am not present in heaven Raphael will be more interested in targeting him than myself. I am inclined to agree with that for the moment. Civil war is...difficult." He shrugged and took a sip of the beer. It was bitter and disgusting and he quickly set it down and made a face as he swallowed down the foul tasting liquid. "That was unpleasant," he added, pointing at the bottle and then folding his hands in his lap again.

He hoped that Azrael wouldn't be around too much; he didn't care for the way Dean looked at him, and letting Azrael play with Dean's head like he had was like letting the man play with fire. Azrael would burn his friend.

"Right, well I guess we'll count our blessings and just be happy he's on our side for now," Sam retorted, glancing back at Castiel briefly as the angel gingerly accepted the beer from Dean's outstretched hand. He shook his head and quickly turned back to his computer before shutting it down, frowning. "Would be nice if somebody else did the grunt work, for once. Making friends, aren't we, Dean?"

"Yeah, yeah. Friends. Best pals, I could see that right away," Dean answered, observing Castiel with an amused quirk of his head. He might've guessed the angel would dislike the taste, but it was still funny to see him flail silently for a response. He'd half expected Cas to simply magic the bottle cap away, but that would have been simply too perfect; the angel was just so damned easy to ruffle sometimes.

It really shouldn't have been as amusing as it was.

"So then, we're letting this Azrael do our dirty work for us, now? How can we even be sure that--Wait." Dean turned, stared down at Castiel for a bewildered second, shot Sam a confused look and back-pedalled through the past few moments in his mind.

Red-haired sassy chick wearing heels and twirling a sucker between pouty red lips. That made sense. Reality right now, however, didn't.

"Did you just say -he-? I'm always a bit unclear on the details with you guys. Azrael's a -he-?" he questioned before dumping his own unopened beer back on the table and snagging the angel's discarded bottle. "Oh, that ain't right, man."

Sam shot him an absurdly knowing look and Dean couldn't help but twitch. "Oh, shut up, Sammy. I saw you stare too," he growled before gulping down a sizeable portion of Castiel's abandoned beer.

"Yes, Azrael is a male. His vessel is a woman as you saw. I believe he finds great amusement in the fact... I don't really understand why." Castiel furrowed his brows and tilted his head as if trying to figure it out. He finally shrugged and looked between the two brothers. "I would not count Azrael as a friend either, he is... unpredictable."

Castiel watched Dean down a sizeable amount of the beer he'd put down wondering just how the man could stand that terrible taste. "He is... dangerous, but trustworthy enough." He licked his lips and frowned again at the lingering taste of beer on them. "Azrael isn't doing my dirty work either. If anything he has his own agenda that is aided by backing my side in the civil war."

"He's... a traditionalist in all honesty. If it had truly been God's will that the apocalypse begin he would be on Raphael's side now. But since it was not God's will and for the moment it seems as if freedom is what our father wishes for us, Azrael will back my side over Raphael. That and Raphael attempted to force Azrael to obey him. Telling an archangel to 'submit or die' is... dangerous. And stupid." He'd probably said too much but he felt they both deserved a complete answer. 

He looked down at his hands for a moment then back up at Dean. "I would not attempt to treat Azrael like you do most women you find attractive, Dean," he chided. "It would not end comfortably for you if you did so."

Dean sat back down heavily into Bobby's ancient couch--every time he did so, he always half-expected a great big plume of dust to rise up as a mini mushroom cloud around him--focusing intently on the angel as Castiel gave them both a brief run-through of the situation upstairs. "Oh, that's just perfect; we got ourselves an ally that likes to play mind games and has a tendency to cross-dress. Plus, now you're telling us she'd... I mean...." Dammit, this could get confusing fast. "-He- would just as soon turn on all our asses if daddy dearest suddenly decided to stick with the original plan," he finally grumbled.

This wasn't good; they'd had shifty allies before but this one smelled positively rank, and something in Dean twisted unpleasantly at the fact that Cas seemed so damned willing to accept such dubiously trustworthy help.

And it seemed Sammy shared his thoughts because the look his brother shot him bordered on nervous and fearful. "But we can trust hi--her, right?" Sam questioned, still sitting rather stiffly in the straight-backed wooden chair next to the table, his own beer all but forgotten for a moment as he pushed his laptop away. "I mean, up to a point."

Sam shared another look, and Dean could readily interpret this one too because he shared his brother's worries; if this newcomer badass was on the fence about her--Dean cursed himself internally--his choice of teams, then any demon or supposed King of Hell worth his salt would just be -dying- to offer the archangel the apocalypse he wished for. Clearly this Azrael was a massive liability and Dean wasn't going to be caught unawares again, not after the several near-misses and encounters with angels turning south they'd had so far.

The mood was quiet and somber for a few minutes as he and Sam digested all this, until Cas opened his mouth again and calmly stated, with no trace of humour in his gruff voice whatsoever, that Dean should basically mind his cock around this Azrael.

Dean laughed, a relieved and exhausted sound that felt about as thin and stretched as he did. He couldn't quite help himself, though he didn't want Cas to think he was making light of something the angel clearly didn't see as funny. "Oh, don't worry about it, Cas. You ever hear the saying about traps--well, no, of course you haven't. Anyway, you can be sure I won't be going around asking her--him, Jesus--if it hurt when he fell from the sky. You got my word."

"And no awkward groping either," Sam piped in from the table.

Dean gestured rudely at his brother before taking another long swig from his beer then feinting a mock, exaggerated swoon. "I would never -dare- molest a lady. 'Sides, she ain't a lady, apparently."

"Could've fooled you," was the muttered, answering quip, which Dean cheerfully chose to ignore.

"So. I guess while our new crossdre--colorful friend flits around upstairs trying to draw Raphael's attention, you're stuck with us, Cas." Dean raised his nearly empty bottle at the angel before downing it with a sigh. "Plans for the weekend? I vote bowling. And food," he added with a mischievous grin.

"Azrael is trustworthy," Castiel said firmly and found he believed it himself. "He and Raphael have no love for each other, so he's not going to convert sides unless something major happens. You should also know if God commanded the apocalypse to happen every angel on heaven or earth would obey. But God remains silent on what his wishes are so I doubt that Azrael will be as you say 'turning on all our assess'."

"If anything Azrael has a lower tolerance for demons than many other angels do. I expect that he's going to react poorly to any demons he encounters. It would be interesting to view that in fact." He tilted his head to the side in thought. "And Dean I am serious. Even the slightest offhand comment about his vessel's gender probably would not end well. For you." He hoped Dean would take his warning seriously because Azrael no doubt would find it greatly amusing to tempt him into something stupid.

"And it's not..." He squinted, trying to decide his phrasing. "... cross-dressing. Azrael's vessel is female, it was the only one of its bloodline he could inhabit safely. I assure you if he could have chosen a male vessel he would have." 

He tilted his head against and regarded Dean as he downed the rest of the beer. "Bowling?" he asked curiously. He had no idea what that was. "What is bowling?"

Dean chuckled and gave up; bowing his head slightly at the near-sermon he got from the angel. He briefly heard Sam snickering very quietly and again chose to ignore his brother to keep this from degenerating into one of their famous and all-encompassing friendly spats. 

"Okay, okay, I get it. Trust me, I wasn't going to attempt anything. Never trust a woman who sees candy as a phallic thing, I've always said," he retorted, before pausing and blinking. "Well, no, I've never said that, but it sounds like good advice, you gotta admit."

Thankfully Sam saved him from further embarrassment. "We weren't going to get friendly with any newcomer, Cas. You know us both better than that. Not until he's proven himself, anyway."

"Yeah, what he said," Dean added mournfully before reaching for the still unopened beer that sat on the table in front of him. A twinge of something close to betrayed hurt bloomed in his chest for a second as he twisted the beer open; he knew his own stupid follies, but hearing Cas just throw them back at him, as though he was -expected- to trip over his own mortal mistakes at every step still rankled somewhat.

"And bowling was a joke, Cas. You'd hate it. There are confounding rules all over the place and loud music." Dean gestured with this new beer before taking a more careful sip, noticing he was the only one in the room slugging them down like it was his last night on earth. He managed a self-conscious cough before shrugging, directing his gaze to Sam briefly; his brother looked positively exhausted--hadn't even touched his beer, really--and Dean took pity on him and called out.

"Yo, Sammeh. Go get some rest, before you log into my accounts on that laptop and start visiting sites I'd be ashamed to link Bobby."

He got a vaguely reproachful if thankful glare in response and Sam got up, unfolding like twelve feet of gangly limbs, awkward elbows and knees before stumbling off towards the stairs that led up to the several spare rooms that Bobby kept clear for their very frequent visits. 

"Yeah, I think I'm... out like a light. Try not to start another apocalypse while I sleep, Dean," he muttered, just as Dean grabbed a random cushion from the couch and threw it rather inaccurately at where Sam's ass would've been if he hadn't ducked behind the banister. He sighed, staring at that pillow for a few brief moments before turning back to Castiel. Truth be told he was also exhausted, but he couldn't recall the last time he'd really gotten true 'time off' and wasn't about to hit the sack if he could manage to drag this lazy evening along.

"Come on, then. Night out..." Dean got up with only slight griping from his tired and cramped legs, secretly pleased that he could probably still pull an all-nighter like a boss if he really tried. "... On the town. My treat," he finished as he walked over to the door, turning to send Castiel a grin that belied a single ounce of weariness. 

Castiel watched as Dean sent Sam up to bed like a child and found himself smiling ever so slightly. The brothers' banter was always endearing to him; he often wised his brothers could act the same. He watched Dean closely for a few moments. He could see the telltale signs of exhaustion in the man's manner; he had to remember that just because -he- did not need sleep didn't mean his mortal friends didn't either. 

Castiel tilted his head to the side and frowned at Dean. "Dean, you are also tired," he chided gently as he stood as well. He wouldn't let Dean run himself into the ground trying to entertain him. "You don't need to attempt to stay awake simply to try and entertain me." He reached out to grip Dean's shoulder, halting his path to the door. 

Dean would probably yell at him in the morning for it, but Castiel was willing to submit to being scolded if it meant he had ensured Dean's safety and health. So he reached up with two fingers and pressed them to Dean's forehead as he reached out with a bit of power and sent the man to sleep. "My apologies, Dean," he said as he hoisted the now unconscious man into his arms with a grunt and another bit of power took them upstairs to Dean's bed room.

Cas set Dean down on the bed and after a moment of thought tugged his boots off before tucking him into bed. He stood over the hunter for a long while, simply watching him before taking himself back downstairs where he set down on the couch with his hands folded in his lap as he waited for the sun to rise.

Dean halted as a firm grip settled around his forearm and turned just in time to meet Castiel's gaze. Had he expected the angel to move so damned fast? He couldn't be certain, now, of anything; fatigue and those three--just three, tonight, he was getting either old or soft--, beers conspired to dull his reflexes as he watched, somewhat bemused, the angel reaching up towards his face.

"Oh, you bastar--"

He felt the familiar moment of panic--his feet getting knocked out from under him, control wrestled away from the tight grip he usually kept on himself, the world spinning, -everything- loosening weirdly in that strange, unearthly burst of power--and he almost managed to voice further expletive curses before everything went dark around him.

When he finally came to it was with a short, sudden and interrupted snore, flailing upright in the familiar bed he usually occupied in Bobby's cabin.

The sun was clearly up, the shabby room bathed in bright, late morning light, and he got up with a low, grumbling mutter. "Damned magical fix-all stuck-up angelic..." He couldn't -quite- finish the thought, though. Because, really, he had been damned near exhausted and already felt miles better than he had the previous night. His sleep had been completely uninterrupted and for the first time in months he couldn't recall if he'd dreamt of anything at all.

He'd be damned if he'd ever admit to that, though. He changed quickly into fresh jeans and a clean shirt--because of course Cas would pull off his boots but never actually bother with sparing a thought for his rumpled clothes as he slept the sleep of the dead--and hazily sauntered downstairs. To his slight surprise Castiel was still there, sitting stiffly in what -should- have been an overly-comfy couch.

Somehow the angel still managed to look ramrod straight though, whereas Dean always felt swallowed by the damned cushions every time his butt so much as hovered near the couch. 

"You still here? Jesus, man, you really -are- on holiday," he managed to growl out, voice still scratchy from sleep. If he'd been alone in the house he probably would have gone straight for Bobby's liquor cabinet, out of habit and to drown out his own memories. Instead he settled for a lazy shuffle towards the fridge, which, surprisingly, was well-stocked and full of leftovers. Dean still wrestled the remains of yesterday's cold pizza from its box--leaving the empty box in place for Bobby to find later--and shuffled hazily back towards the angel.

"Sammy up yet?" he mumbled around a quick bite before lounging heavily in the plush chair, staying well away from the jello-like consistency of the butt-eating couch.

Castiel watched Dean shuffle around the living room impassively. He had spent his night communing with his brothers up in heaven. Their voices were living chant in his mind that never failed to remind him of what he was. Even when he had fallen he had heard them. If he focused, he could pick out individual voices among the heavenly host. There was Balthazar's rhythmic baritone, and Rachel's mezzo-soprano, and now Azrael's deep, reverberating bass. They all blended together with the rest of the host into a musical cacophony that was chaotic and yet still harmonious.

There were times he wished that he could let Dean and Sam hear what he heard. It might have helped them understand why he was fighting so hard to save his brothers, and why each death pained him so. Every angel that died removed an all important voice that every angel heard and missed. He could hear them all, those on his side and those on Raphael's. He could hear his more powerful brother's voices rumbling in low, violent undertones as they circled each other. 

"Where else would I go, Dean?" Castiel asked, looking up at Dean with what seemed to be distracted interest. He would not mention that Azrael had killed three of their brothers in the night, three of those most loyal to Raphael. Azrael's tactics were violent and bold; he was attacking those who held Raphael up so that the other archangel would lash out and attack him. He wouldn't mention that the song that was all the voices of his brothers was changed forever now.

"Sam is still in bed I believe, and Bobby went into town. He is, I think, retrieving some sort of book." He tilted his head and regarded Dean more closely. "I apologize for putting you to sleep like I did last night. I know you... dislike it. But you once told me humans require sleep, and I thought it best you sleep instead of attempt to amuse me."

Dean blinked, swallowing nearly half the pizza slice he held in his hand before the thought even crossed his mind to ask if Castiel was hungry. This was starting to bother on ridiculous, really. The angel had apparently spent the night just sitting calmly on Bobby's couch. There was no way Castiel even -needed- Dean's flailing attempts at breakfast, but he still had to quell a slight urge to ask the man if he wanted anything to eat.

Clearly he was starting to lose his marbles.

He managed to pull himself together enough to shrug and send Cas a faint, hopefully unconcerned grin. "Hey, it's fine. Got used to your angel mojo a while ago. I would've appreciated getting the chance of changing out of my jeans before I passed out, but beggars can't be choosers, I guess," he blurted, nibbling on the cold pizza before his idiot mouth could run him further into the ground.

Truth be told, every damned time Cas went all angelic power bullshittery on his ass, something within him rebelled and wanted, fiercely, to scream and shout and beat on the walls. He'd been used, discarded like a tool and pushed into acting on behalf of indifferent others so many times before that even the thought of Castiel--and he trusted the angel with his life, had already proven so, heavily depending on Castiel's support many times in the past--using that damned unnatural power on him rankled a bit.

But that was his own problem to deal with, and he was pretty damned sure confirming Castiel's worries wouldn't help him much, in the long run. Besides, he already owed a hell of a lot to the angel, pun notwithstanding. This long and dreamless sleep only added to the list. He hadn't even managed to discuss his own weariness with Sam; it was a bit unsettling to know that Castiel had noticed, had seen right through his party act and promptly sent him to bed, like a mother sends an unruly child to sleep.

"Honestly, I could use some fucking downtime, but don't tell anyone," he hastily added as he finished off the last bit of dried pizza crust and wiped a hand on his jeans. "Just a couple days of mindless bliss, really. That's not too much to ask, is it?"

"You do much for little thanks, Dean," Castiel said calmly, still watching Dean. He could read the man easily, even without bothering to delve into his mind. He kept himself out of Dean's head simply out of respect for his friend. He could have easily done so without Dean even noticing, but to invade his privacy in such a manner felt wrong. "Next time I will attempt to warn you beforehand so you can make yourself comfortable first."

He licked his lips and thought hard. Humans were so fragile and had only themselves to fall back on; sure they had families and most of those families clustered around each other in times of need. But unlike the angels they couldn't feel the power that their family members had or hear that constant song that meant each and every one their family members was alive.

He wished he could show Dean why he fought so hard. Well, he could, but he wasn't sure if Dean would be willing to allow him to, as the man would surely put it, 'muck around in his head'. He tilted his head and decided to go for it. "Dean, I would like to show you something but it would require use of my, as you call it, mojo in your head."

"Yeah, well, don't worry about it, Cas. I've had way worse sleep before. Think I needed the angelic power nap," Dean answered with a wide, gaping yawn that ended in a shameless, full body stretch before he heavily slumped back into his chair. It was strange to feel so damned relaxed around anyone other than Sammy, but there was something furiously comforting and domestic about morning-angel-on-Bobby's-couch that just made -him- feel like he was on holiday.

Regardless, Cas somehow managed to shatter that illusion a bit when he leaned minutely forward and turned that unflinching blue gaze towards Dean. 

"Show me something? Show me what, exactly? I... Wait a damned minute, I think I need..." Dean got up, tried and failed to hide a slight shiver and went back to the kitchen, ducking his head imperceptibly to try and avoid Castiel's eyes. "... Coffee for this."

Sure enough, Bobby had left the pot on and he quickly shuffled around the countertops for a clean-looking cup before filling it to the brim with dark, hot brew and sauntering back towards Castiel. The angel was still staring at him, with that familiar look that was just so -Cas-, intense and expectant, as thought the next words out of Dean's mouth could change the course of history.

He sighed, detoured around the low table and gingerly flopped into the couch next to the angel, taking a long, careful sip of hot and bitter coffee before setting his cup down. "You know, you're getting better at all this," he forced out, gesturing a bit nervously with one hand. "This is the first time you've actually asked, I think."

Castiel tilted his head as Dean stretched lazily. Humans were such funny creatures at times, not that he let any amusement show through as Dean stretched. "You still have trouble sleeping, don't you," he stated because he knew it was true. If he thought Dean would accept the offer he would have suggested allowing him to put him to sleep every night. But Dean probably would have reacted angrily at the thought so he kept his peace.

He steepled his fingers again and listened to Dean shuffling around the kitchen. He could remember the few times he had slept during his rather unpleasant fall from grace. Sleep had left him with very little rejuvenation and more often than not he woke more tired than he was when he went to sleep. He'd disliked that part of being nearly human the most. 

"I asked permission because this isn't something important to a hunt or the apocalypse. This is just me," He frowned and thought about his wording, "Wishing to share what motivates me with you. It won't be unpleasant." 

He turned to face Dean and reached up to press two fingers to his temple. "Close your eyes and -listen-," he said as he carefully reached out with his grace to let Dean hear what he heard. It wouldn't add a new voice to the host but it would let Dean hear everything.

"Yeah? Just as long as I don't go all melting face and exploding eyes, then--" Castiel's fingers against the side of his face silenced Dean, and he braced himself unconsciously despite the angel's words, forehead scrunching up briefly as he grudgingly humoured the angel and closed his eyes. For a few mad seconds while he waited for something either awesome or just totally, mind-numbingly disturbing--it was always hard to tell, with Cas--absolutely nothing happened.

Dean's face relaxed and he almost opened one eye, tilting his head slightly. "Listen to wha--Oh."

Sound exploded quite suddenly, from everywhere around him, reverberating in a way that let him know this clearly had nothing at all to do with his ears. It sounded like one massive note played on the biggest, most impossibly complex instrument in the world, a booming, undulating wave of sound. It should have felt discordant--there were so many individual noises raising and falling within that one note--and in a very literal sense it was; yet everything merged until he was hard put to differentiate one note from another, until the sound was more like a wall, a physical thing with so much substance Dean felt like he could almost reach out and touch it.

He drew himself back from Castiel's outstretched hand and the sudden silence hit him like a ton of bricks, the voices, whatever they were, cutting off abruptly to leave him feeling oddly alone. He had a vague idea what he'd just witnessed, had been on the much less pleasant end of the same song when Cas had first shown up, cracking windowpanes and exploding television sets in his effort to reach out and speak.

But this had been nothing like that, nothing like the angry, painful screech he had come to dread. Coughing, Dean reached for his coffee cup with a trembling hand and firmly grounded himself back in this reality--the coffee was cold, and it was a relief to notice that--before turning to face Cas again. He took a few moments to settle himself and force down a strange impulse to ask more, to ask questions, to understand what it must be like to -be- one of those voices. And he understood, of course, why Castiel had shown him this; he saw his family as beautiful, as important, in a way that Dean could now appreciate if not completely understand.

He wanted to reassure Cas that he knew, had always known if not always agreed, and didn't need to be reminded why the angel fought. "That was..." Gorgeous, completely out of this world and now that it was gone suddenly Dean felt stupidly, ridiculously -human-. "... other angels, right? Why aren't my ears halfway across the room?" he asked instead.

Castiel felt strangely fulfilled as he watched comprehension and something like awe show in Dean's expressions. He could tell Dean understood that he'd just been shown something that no other human had been privy to in thousands of years, if ever. He could see how it had affected the man to have had that peek behind the curtain.

He lowered his hand when Dean moved away and let the man collect himself. He folded his hands in his lap again and expected Dean to have questions about it. He could almost see them on the tip of Dean's tongue. He would have answered Dean's question as best as he could. But no questions came and he was fine with that. 

"Yes, that was the host," Castiel said, nodding. "Every angel has a unique voice that we all hear. That's what you heard; some religions call it the heavenly choir which I suppose is the closest approximation." He licked his lips and thought for a moment on Dean's second question. "Because you weren't hearing the host with your ears, if you had physically been hearing it you probably would have had the same reaction as the first times I attempted to speak with you."

He tilted his head and shifted his seat. He wondered how jarring returning to silence after hearing the voice of the heavenly host was. He supposed the only way to find out was to rip out his grace and become entirely human, but he would never do that. He'd been close enough to mortal when he'd fallen and he had no interest in getting any closer. It was disturbing being so... he didn't really have a word that seemed to fit how it had felt.

"Huh. Do you... always hear it, or is it a tune-in sort of thing?" Dean asked, curious as to how he'd survive hearing that sound twenty-four seven for the rest of his days. It would be just so easy to zone out and simply listen, forget about the real world around him. There was absolutely no question even of his wondering how it would feel to speak up among that din and try to make himself heard; that idea was just so out of this world and far from any sort of reference he could've had that it made no sense to wonder about it.

If this went on in the background of Castiel's mental soundtrack -all the time-, it was no surprise the angel always seemed a little... out of it. He was about to ask Cas just what else he should know about angels--because finding shit out last minute via someone out for his blood was, while exciting, pretty bad for Dean's health, overall and when was the last time Cas had been so forthcoming with information?--when a very loud, chaotic and familiar sound reached Dean's ears. 

He grinned, took another long swallow of coffee and raised his voice without ever looking away from Castiel's face. 

"Morning, Sammy."

A pause, before his brother finally made his clambering way down the rest of the stairs and sauntered into view, fully dressed if a bit disheveled. "Morning Dean, Cas. Has Bobby already left? Why the hell didn't anybody wake me up? I wanted to head into town with him to trace down this book on omens and cycles," Sam muttered as he all but flew past the both of them towards the kitchen.

Dean mentally counted to three, rolled his eyes and mouthed 'Wait for it', at Cas, even though it was likely the angel wouldn't find this routine as roaringly hilarious as he did.

"Aww, come on, Dean!" Sam exclaimed from the kitchen. "You finished off the coffee, again?" 

"Hey, I thought you were going out, man," he replied, finally turning away from Cas to call out towards his brother as he zipped past again.

"I am. And you better hope Bobby's waiting for me."

"You're not taking my car," Dean deadpanned after Sam, who was already nearly out the door.

"Fine."

"And bring back food that's not Bobby's freaky leftovers!"

"Fine!"

The door clicked shut behind Sam and Dean chuckled, setting down his nearly empty cup and slowly getting to his feet. With both his brother and Bobby chasing down knowledge and dusty books somewhere in town, he had the rest of the day pretty much off, and was a bit at a loss as to how to spend it. Having Castiel just... hovering nearby was a bit unsettling too, especially after that little silent angel concerto.

"So, way I see it, we can either wait here for those two to come back or head out while we got the chance. Any news from upstairs on what we should be doing?" he asked Castiel after the noise of Sam driving away had died down.

"It is part of me, to hear my brothers and sisters in such a way," Castiel said with a small shrug. He knew his own voice and presence was part of that same song. "It's how I know those closest to me are still alive, and I am not alone. How you can handle the silence that humanity is... I don't understand, could not even being to attempt it, Dean." He clasped his hands before him and looked over at the stairs as Sam made his way down them.

"Hello, Sam," he said evenly, watching as the brothers bickered back and forth. He'd long since learned this sort of mock arguments were simply part of being human. Angels didn't tease like that; sure there was good natured ribbing from time to time, but only from those that were extremely close. The fact Dean and Sam had brought him into that same level so easily still amazed him.

He glanced down at his hands and thought for a long moment. "There is no word from heaven though that will probably change quickly," he said, his wings ruffling at the thought of having nothing to do. "It seems for the moment, I am at your disposal, Dean." If he listened hard enough he could probably find something for them to do. But it would undoubtedly be a hunt and Dean seemed to want some down time.

"So whatever you would like to do is fine with me." His brothers thought he was mad for blindly trusting Dean and Sam like he did. But at this point distrusting them seemed insanity, if he had felt comfort enough to sleep and drop his guard around them when he was next to helpless he could do the same when he wasn't powerless.

Dean stared at the angel a few seconds longer than was strictly necessary and coughed, something like an awkward little shiver trying to worm its way up his spine at Castiel's choice of words. 'At your disposal' thrown at him with a wink and a seductive smile by some busty blonde or brunette in a dingy bar would have had him at half-mast and flirting back in mere milliseconds.

Of course, Cas was neither human nor even close to a busty blonde, by any stretch of the imagination, and Dean had nothing to explain this awkward little internal twitch aside from the obvious. After the dreadful mess he'd made of things with Lisa and leaving both her and Ben behind, he'd more or less given up trying to go after girls for brief, if generally heated, flings. He couldn't even remember going so long without sex before so he shrugged, mentally called his dick a damned opportunistic traitor and tried to forget anything had even happened down south.

"Right. Of course it's silent. Everybody's goddamn laying low, apparently. Come on, then," he grumbled, walking over to the kitchen and eyeing the mess on Bobby's counters with a faint sigh. Bobby had accosted him the previous day, given him a stern talking-to about his bad habit of not picking up after himself and more or less ordered him to do some cleaning up occasionally while he 'worked his old fingers to the bone trying to keep you idjits from getting killed or swallowed or torn apart at every damned opportunity'.

"I wanted to avoid this, but... Guess I got no choice, now." He picked up a clean dishtowel from the oven handle and pitched it squarely at Castiel's chest. "I wash, you dry, and when this is done we can pretend we haven't been doing chores like housewives, break out the cards and teach you poker."

He pushed dirty dishes out of his way, emptied the sink of stray cutlery, plugged it closed and got the water going before glancing back at Castiel. "Deal? And yes, you have to help. It's a rule; Dean Winchester never dries."

Castiel caught the dish towel and looked between Dean the dirty dishes then tilted his head quizzically. Vague memories from Jimmy--who was thankfully in heaven at this point, leaving only his body for Castiel to inhabit--showed him and his wife going about this ritual together. The angel frowned for a moment before pausing to remove his trench coat and after a moment the suit jacket as well. 

He left them off after they'd finished drying and sat down to play 'poker'. Castiel didn't really understand the idea behind the game, but he seemed to win more often than Dean thought he would. Something about having a 'great poker face' whatever that meant.

He set his cards down and looked towards the door as he heard to vehicles pulling up. "I believe Bobby and Sam have returned, Dean," he said, then looked back at Dean expectantly.

Sure enough a few moments later Bobby stomped into the house. "Clear that table off," he growled by way of greeting. He was carrying what looked like a perfectly circular mirror and several rare herbs as well as what looked like an ancient book. "Something's up, I just heard from Garth and about a dozen other hunters that there have been demon omens all over the country but whenever anyone goes to check it out, no demons."

"We're gunna work a bit of a ritual to see what we can find out. So don't gawk at me, clear that table off, and then get me the horehound, sage, gorse, and dill out of my stock pile, Sam's bringing in the rest of the supplies. Castiel you got any clue what a 'fragment of angelic grace in physical form' would be?" Bobby looked at the angel who was already gathering cards up.

Castiel frowned in thought. "Our grace is incorporeal, there is no psychical manifestation of it," he said, thinking hard. "Well...there is one thing."

Dean flipped his cards back down onto the table when Castiel announced Bobby and Sam's return. Cleaning up had been oddly relaxing, the angel's silent presence making it a nearly zen-like task. Of course, that tranquil calm had been obliterated about ten minutes after he'd introduced Cas to poker, when he'd run firmly into the very real problem of the angel's face when it came to trying to anticipate his hand.

He'd already lost most of his chips and so only muttered a grateful "About time," when Bobby burst in, arms loaded with stuff. The mirror gave him pause and he got to his feet, quickly hiding the evidence of his massive losses by swiping all the chips into one big pile. Fair and square, too; it wasn't like he'd even suggested they play for money.

"Demon omens without demons? Jesus, it's like everyone's in hiding, I swear," he sighed, dumping both chips and cards onto a pile of books near the window before picking up whatever remained of a couple bottles of beer and a half-eaten bag of popcorn, making room on the table for Bobby to set down what he was carrying.

Sam followed soon afterwards, carrying two large water jugs. Dean tilted his head at his brother, who gave him a 'don't ask' look and unceremoniously dumped the plastic bottles on the table. 

"Distilled holy water? Fancy." Dean shrugged, turned to Bobby's shelves and started plucking the herbs as the old hunter listed them quickly, passing them one at a time to Sam who neatly stacked them in a row next to the water bottles, one after the other while Bobby turned his attention to Castiel.

Distracted for a moment by his brother's absurd and anal attention to detail, Dean almost missed the very uncertain look that flitted across the angel's face as he spoke. Watching Castiel's forehead crease into a frown always did weird things to him, and the expression usually brought to mind either memories of earlier disaster or faint remembered hints of times when very human things had confused the angel with hilarious results.

Like that time Cas had decided that watching porn to satisfy his curiosity would be a good idea. -That- particular memory rose into Dean's mind just as Castiel's voice petered out and he released a single, quiet snicker. "'Course you find the one spell that requires extracting 'essence of angel', Sammy," he managed before Sam elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

"Sometimes I think you're still twelve years old, Dean," his brother sighed.

"Honestly?" Dean quipped back, rubbing his somewhat achy side and firmly steeling himself to meet Castiel's blue eyes with only a slight quirk to his lips. "Nothing would surprise me anymore. Tell me we're talking feathers and wings here, Cas."

Bobby set the things in his arms on the table and stomped into his study. He returned a few moments later with chalk and his coal brazier. He looked at Castiel as well, while the angel looked profoundly uncomfortable. 

"We are," Castiel said with a frown. "What else would I mean?" He tilted his head at Dean, while Bobby snorted out a laugh. 

"Is it difficult for you to manifest them?" Bobby asked, hoping they wouldn't have to jump through hoops to get that last component.

"It's harder to keep them hidden, but... displaying our wings is... not something that's done." Castiel was lying. It wasn't a huge lie, angels didn't display their wings to just anyone, especially not humans. And -his- wings... they were an embarrassment to him. They had been a creamy custard colour before he pulled Dean from hell, but now they were stained from the hell fires. Frankly, they looked like he'd been rolling in ashes, and they bore several nasty scars from the demons in hell that had not wanted to allow Dean's soul to be freed. His discomfort at the idea was plain on his face. 

"So you can't break a rule to help us find out what's mucking with the demons?" Bobby asked, glaring at the angel who met his gaze impassively. "Or is this about you angels not wanting to let mere humans near your wings?" Castiel flinched at that and levelled Bobby with a slightly aloof glare.

"Castiel." There was a rush of air and Azrael was standing at Castiel's elbow. It seemed like he enjoyed dressing his vessel up, because instead of the pristine white pants suit, with a black dress shirt and crimson tie, he was in a red pants suit with black pin stripes, a black shirt and red tie with his copper coloured hair slicked back. 

Dean met Castiel's confused stare and smiled, shaking his head. "Nothing. I'm sure the TV will explain everything eventually," he shot back. Or the masses of cheap, dirty magazines he still carried around in his duffel bag everywhere he went. Either that, or the angel was just playing dumb. It was always so damned hard to tell, really and sometimes so easy to forget that Castiel was older, way older, than him.

Sam shuffled aside to stand near Bobby, eager to get this show on the road and Dean leaned against the edge of the table, watching in growing concern as the angel slowly tensed up, the discussion about his wings clearly not a conversation he wanted to be having. Something was hovering just at the edges of Dean's mind, in those places he generally refused to visit, those dark spots that he kept firmly locked and tightly barred, where blood and pain and that god awful scent of scorched meat lurked.

It was a sort of recognition, a tingly, faint memory just out of his reach that always made him flinch whenever Castiel--or another angel--showed up and he heard that distinct, thumping flutter of a wing beat. He frowned, tried to ignore the annoying almost-memory and nearly choked when he actually heard Azrael's arrival.

The two angels exchanged looks that clearly stated they were speaking to each other in a manner other than human speech. Azrael cocked his head and peered at the supplies Bobby had gathered. "It seems your gibbons already know what I came to tell you, Castiel," he said as he daintily picked up the horehound. 

"And you are?" Bobby growled watching as Azrael absently crumbled the dried herb in his hand and left the dust on the table.

"Azrael, you're missing a component." The archangel glanced at Castiel who frowned and shrugged minutely. Azrael chuckled and arched a brow. Castiel frowned but kept his peace. Azrael rolled his shoulders and looked between Castiel and Bobby then at the two brothers.

"Yeah, we know we're missing a component, ya idjit." Bobby said with a snort. "You gunna help us with that?"

Azrael let out what was clearly a delighted chuckle. "You have spunk," he said as he fished in his breast pocket and retrieved a sucker, which he unwrapped but didn't stick in his mouth.

It took Dean a few seconds to recover and when he did he shifted away from the desk, unconsciously moving to stand vaguely between the newcomer and his brother, who stood up straighter and shot Dean a warning look. He sighed in slight frustration and dutifully waited while the two angels had what appeared to be a staring contest before Azrael mentioned the ritual and off-handedly inferred that he was already aware of what was going on with the demons not showing up as they should.

For some reason that grated terribly and when both angels started having another staring match--something told Dean that a conversation was happening, one which he wasn't totally aware of--he finally snapped, stepping closer and -almost- reaching for the sucker Azrael was holding.

"You two mind speaking up? If there's something going on I'd rather know before creatures from down below start fucking taking swipes at us," he hissed.

"Dean..." Sam's voice was tight but restraining, an attempt at disarming the situation before Dean could further escalate into aggravation.

He sighed, forced his shoulders to relax and firmly stuck both hands deep into the pockets of his jeans before he could really make a mess of things. "And yes, all hunters have spunk; comes with the job. Sammy here confirms the rule by being an exception."

"... Hey." Dean could -almost- see the frown on his brother's face without even turning, eyes stubbornly fixed on Azrael's face and not anywhere else.

Castiel flinched and cast Dean a 'shut up you idiot' look even as Azrael let out another burble of laughter."We're not omnipotent, you gibbon. I know what Bobby knows," he said, pointing at the older hunter with his sucker then fixing both Winchesters with an unreadable look. 

"As for angelic conversations if you'd like us to do so out loud, I can certainly introduce you to my true Voice. It'll be the last thing you ever hear but, hey, it might just be worth it. But next time you address me I'd watch my -tone- if I were you -boy-. You might get away with disrespecting Castiel like that, but I'll flay your flesh from your bones then drag you back to hell myself. So either shut up and let the adults talk, or be respectful." Azrael said and outside thunder rumbled ominously outside, signaling a fast approaching storm. "Besides I came here to help."

Bobby shifted, suddenly aware this was no normal angel in the room. His memory caught up with the name and he swore. "It would figure that an archangel would turn up," he muttered, scowling down at Azrael who tilted his head and twirled the sucker around on his fingers. "Well, you said you were here to help."

Azrael glanced at Castiel, who shrugged, still clearly unhappy about something. There was a rush and the room was filled with a pair of massive iridescent black wings. They were broad and Azrael had to cup them around the group to keep from hitting anything in the kitchen. They shimmered with a faint light all of their own. 

Bobby tried to keep his face impassive but it was an impressive sight. With the smallest feathers being somewhere around the size of his hand, and the largest nearly the length of his leg, he wouldn't have been surprised if the angel could really fly with them. 

Castiel hoped none of the humans in the room were stupid enough to try and touch Azrael's wings. Because he doubted he'd be able to save them from Azrael's wrath, or that he'd want to.

Dean visibly cringed as Azrael rounded on him, and though the angel's voice remained mellow it was now dripping with thinly-veiled disdain. Dealing with this one felt so damned close to dealing with a demon, complete with that twisted, better-than-you-mud-monkey attitude. Only it was somehow worse, because mixed into all of that--which Dean already hated with a passion--was the very unique angelic brand of snobby I-know-things-you-don't-so-shut-the-fuck-up hauteur, which even Castiel displayed on occasion when things went sour or Dean stuck his foot in his mouth.

Like now, maybe. Sighing, stepping back and feeling like an idiot and a scolded child but still pissed at being regarded like so much useless meat, he settled back against the desk and crossed his arms over his chest, choosing to shut up for the time being. He saw Sam untense from across the desk and shot him an apologetic look which largely went ignored because right at that moment the tell-tale thump of wings resounded around them as Azrael twitched.

Dean couldn't quite suppress a slight, startled jump, staring in mild shock at the massive wings that unfolded and surrounded them. "Jesus," he muttered, stepping aside slightly and closer to the desk, eyes locked on the mass of iridescent dark feathers closest to him. For a moment he'd almost seen something else, the annoying sense of something familiar rising and falling just as quickly as it had appeared.

Some dim sense of propriety made him twitch further away from the wings and he shared an uncertain look with his brother before speaking. "So this... is what our little ritual needs, Bobby? Actual feathers from an angel's wings? That's not the sort of thing you just happen to find lying in the street. Where the hell d'you find this book?"

He took a deep breath and slowly turned towards Azrael, dismayed to find that his small-framed vessel appeared both even more lithe and practically larger than the room, a mix that was strange, but not particularly unpleasant. He'd never actually -seen- any of the angels' wings, just felt, or heard them, or seen their shadows and shapes distantly, out of the corner of his eye.

Not for the first time he wondered where Cas hid his, how it all worked; but that wasn't the sort of thought that was useful to have, because he knew it was a human thought and probably had nothing to do with the reality of actually -owning- a pair of those wings.

"And you're... volunteering to help?" he asked Azrael, mindful to at least try and keep his voice pleasant and polite. "What happens when we go through this ritual? We just get intel?"

"That's what I want to know; last time I checked, books like this," Azrael tapped the book Bobby had brought with him, "had been removed from the planet."

"By who?" Bobby demanded, looking between the angels.

"Oh, please, like you hadn't guessed angels have been modifying the information you gibbons have on us," Azrael said with a snort as he reached up and pulled a feather from his wings. "So we're going to make a deal, I let you use one of my feathers, and after your little ritual that book and the feather burn." As he spoke he carefully folded his wings and with a rustle of feathers they disappeared. 

Bobby glared and looked around the room. "Fine." He held out his hand for the feather, and Azrael arched a brow at him before placing the feather in his hand.

Castiel opened his mouth to say something but Azrael stuck his still untouched sucker in it before he could speak. "You'll make sure they dispose of everything, right Castiel?" Azrael asked in a tone that said he knew the answer before disappearing.

Castiel made a face and pulled the sucker out of his mouth. He held the thing between two fingers and frowned. "I hate when he does that," he muttered, still frowning.

The tension in the room dissipated quickly once Azrael agreed to help and set down his terms; it seemed reasonable enough, though the mention of burning the book made Dean's hands itch with curiosity. Anything that someone, especially someone that powerful, preferred to keep hidden seemed important to actually know, but he wasn't about to jeopardize the fragile peace he'd managed to strike with the archangel just to make sure they weren't getting burned on this deal.

Besides, if he knew Bobby, he knew there was probably a copy of the book already in the plans, or that the man had managed to leaf through enough of it during the short time he'd had the thing to make some sense of -why- Azrael wanted it gone.

He met the old hunter's stare as Bobby turned to them and tried to convey, with a shrug and a confused look, that he didn't care either way and that this was probably as good as they were going to get. And then Bobby's hand closed around the feather and apparently everything was a-okay.

And if he smiled after that when the devilish little minx of an angel stuffed the round candy rather enthusiastically into a stunned Castiel's open mouth, well, nobody could've blamed him, really. Cas' blue eyes went even wider than they usually were, his face going a bit slack in shock before twisting in the familiar, slightly sulky frown that made Dean forget, every time he saw it, that the angel was older than humanity.

He cleared his throat noisily and sidled closer to Bobby, peering at the gleaming black feather the hunter gingerly held in his hand before turning back to Castiel as Sam, shuffling around behind him and opening up the two jars of water and bottles of herbs, finally got things underway in preparation for their ritual.

"So, feathers and spells. You knew this was all it took, right? So why've we got one of Azrael's feathers to work with and not yours?" he asked, gently plucking the sucker from Castiel's hand. It was bright red and smelled of furiously chemical cherry and, hell, why not? Sweet stuff should never get wasted, especially when it was the favourite brand of an apparently ageless and nearly all-powerful being. 

Dean firmly wrote it down as trying to understand a potential ally/enemy and promptly stuck it in his mouth, speaking around it as he wrestled the large round mirror onto the table. "Azrael seemed to haff no damned qualms 'bout showing offff them wings."

Bobby simply winked at Dean as he set the feather on the table where the thing stood up on it’s tip apparently of its own volition and began to spin slowly. He picked up the chalk he’d brought into the room and began drawing some sort of sigil on the floor with it. When he was finished he fetched a copper bowl he used for most of his rituals. 

“I’d like to know the answer to that as well. Why was Azrael so willing to help?” he asked as he set the brazier up with the copper bowl above it so the heat from it would heat whatever was inside. He looked at the feather and shook his head.

Castiel blinked as Dean took the sucker from him and tilted his head as Dean promptly stuck it into his mouth. He looked down at the floor as he was questioned. “Azrael does as he pleases and no one bothers to let him do otherwise anymore. Not even Michael could fully rein him in,” he said truthfully. That didn’t answer the question but that was clearly all he was going to say on the matter.

He looked at the feather as it spun and frowned again. Why had Azrael wanted to help? How had he even known that they were going to do a ritual? Castiel didn’t like the idea that one of his brothers was spying on him. But he didn’t have the strength to question Azrael’s motives. He would have to look into it. 

He turned his attention back to Bobby, who was adding the herbs to the copper bowl and chanting in enochian as he did so. He would burn the feather for Azrael, he decided, but leave the book. These were his friends; whatever knowledge the book had on angels was safe with them, and if Azrael was doing something… wrong, they’d need it. 

The archangel had always been a wildcard among the host. An outcast that was known best for the lives he’d taken, and who he had been loyal to. Castiel thought that, maybe, Azrael had gone a bit mad over the years. As an angel of death he’d been allowed to go to earth to do his duties and that had given him more insight into humanity than any other angel. 

But he was sure Azrael did not want either of their more powerful brothers freed. If Azrael truly was still loyal to Lucifer he would have gone to the fallen angel when he was first set free. Instead, Azrael had shied away from the thought of Lucifer. His voice had been loudest amongst those that had sided with Michael. 

He would, Castiel decided, tell them all this. Just so they knew, and could understand that Azrael’s motives were his own, and why Castiel was still wary of him. Azrael would be furious but he wouldn’t be able to do much about it.


	2. Dreams on the Road

"Okay, that's weird," Dean muttered as he watched the feather begin to incongruously spin slowly, as though hung on invisible thread. "Anyone else find this weird?" Bobby pretty much ignored him but Sam gave him a 'hey, seen worse' look so he frowned, dragged his eyes away from the feather and settled his attention back on Castiel as Bobby started setting up the copper incense bowl.

He didn't like one bit the way the angel awkwardly deflected the question; it wasn't the first time they'd gotten only half-truths from Cas. He'd come to expect outright lies from the rest of the feathery bastards but it always stung a bit when he knew Castiel wasn't being totally honest, as though he had a right to expect better from the angel after everything they'd both put each other through.

Truth be told, though, he knew, felt it as surely as he sometimes felt the twitch of that damned scar on his shoulder; Cas didn't really owe him anything, but all the being led around all the time and the constant appearing and disappearing at his own convenience sometimes grated a bit, the same way that Azrael's holier-than-thou attitude did, though on a much smaller scale.

Maybe it was just Dean's pride, rankling slightly every time he was reminded he was only human. Maybe. Probably.

He sighed, dismissed the topic for the time being--but made a mental note to ask again later, at the risk of aggravating the angel--and turned to Sam, who was wrestling the large mirror back off the table and towards the centre of the massive sigil Bobby had drawn on the floor.

"Dude, I just put that there," he grumbled.

"I know, and it's heavy as shit, so kindly hurry up. The feather; take it and get over here so we can start. It's supposed to scribble on this mirror," Sam answered with a faint grunt as he shifted the mirror's weight up and onto his hip.

Dean glanced at the still-spinning feather, then back at his brother and frowned. "Why can't I have the mirror?"

"It's floating in the air, man. You get floaty feather, I'm doing fine with this mirror, thank you," Sam answered.

"Oh come on, how is that even fair...?" he muttered in response, ever so gingerly reaching for the feather, half expecting it to burn through the skin of his hand. But it was barely warm, and soft as silk, its fibres long and pliant like no feather he'd ever seen, barring maybe those of freakishly groomed and curly purebred pigeons back when they'd passed through summer country fairs one year.

He walked over to the mirror, holding the feather uncertainly in his hand and shot Castiel an uncertain glance before he could stop himself. He'd never given much thought to Cas' wings before recently, but now, standing here with an angel feather in his hand, he sort of wished Azrael hadn't shown up at all, just so he could've seen, held, touched something that might've helped him understand more of Castiel's nature. Though he'd never admit it, of course.

Of course. 

Another nod at Bobby served to bring his wildly veering thoughts back to the present. "You better start, Bobby, before Sam here brings us seven years' bad luck," he quipped, perfectly aware that his brother was quite possibly in better shape than he was, what with all the running around and salads.

He got an eye roll from Sammy for his trouble, but at least his mind wasn't dwelling anymore on feathers and wings and the lost look he'd glimpsed on Castiel's face earlier.

Bobby snorted and looked over at Castiel who was standing back and away from their little group and looking unhappy. “Alright, hold on to your breeches this might get a bit strange.” He said as he dropped the last of the herbs into the bowl and struck a match. Three guttural words and he dropped the match into the herbs which ignited with an unnatural gout of blue flame.

The feather –hummed- in Dean’s hand before glowing radiantly and some force made it shift into the perfect position to write with and prevented Dean from letting go of it. Still humming, the feather jerked in Dean’s hand and began to move, jerking Dean’s hand along with it as some other force used it to write.

The words were mostly gibberish or names and a strange mix of Latin, enochian and English. Whatever was causing the writing to happen was doing so in small, neat text, even though the words were not at all coherent. Several times, whatever was writing repeated itself in a dozen different ways. It was like the babbling of a mad man as it forced Dean to write. 

Eventually the mirror was covered entirely in glowing script and the feather went still in Dean’s hand. All the supernatural life in it gone, an old dusty, perfectly normal-looking feather remained. Even the edges looked rugged and aged.

Dean had been prepared for "strange", even before Bobby had spoken. But feeling the feather start to hum and nearly vibrate in his hand the second the copper bowl erupted in a rush of blue flame was still something he didn't want to repeat. It felt like he was holding onto something alive, and the feather pulled at his hand until he had no choice but to raise his arm.

He shot Sam a confused and helpless look, which his brother returned, as his hand started describing furious motions, the feather seemingly inking tiny scrawling shapes in something that was definitely not ink all over the surface of the mirror. It started up near the top and worked its way down slowly, until every inch was covered in tiny, cramped handwriting which looked nothing like Dean's.

And as soon as he felt the power ebb and the hold over his arm loosen, Dean released the thing and it tumbled down slowly, looking for all the world like nothing more than just an oversized feather. 

"Whoa," he muttered, an exclamation that didn't quite cover it and which he regretted instantly, because even -he- was tempted to roll his eyes. 

Sam did, though, before shouldering the weight of the mirror and stepping aside to carefully deposit it back onto the table after checking it was alright to do so with Bobby. Dean surreptitiously wiped his hand on his thigh before bending to pick the feather up and marching over to Castiel. As a show of faith, and because he still felt a bit foolish about pissing off Azrael earlier, he offered the feather back to the angel with a slight shrug.

"Here. Since your little friend kept up his end of the bargain," he said as he waved the feather at Cas. He still had no idea why Castiel had just gone all broody on their asses; he'd seemed to be going fine until they'd started with this damned ritual, had even gotten a few quips in earlier when they'd been playing poker--though Dean was unsure if that was just him trying to inject humour where there was only blank deadpan--so this sudden change of mood was a bit strange.

And seeing as though having Castiel around was like riding into hunts with a small nuclear bomb of angelic kick-ass strapped to his baby, he rather wanted to keep the guy around and not have him poof away as he so often did. This came with some amount of awkward as price, though, considering how they tended to get in each other's faces regarding a few specific topics but the angel, Dean thought, was worth the aggravation when he wasn't being a total dick about greedily withholding information.

"Bobby, Sam? What've we got?" he finally called out, glancing aside at his brother, who was still bent over the table and examining the mirror.

Castiel made a face at the feather but didn’t touch it; instead, it went up in flames still in Dean’s hand. They didn’t last long enough to even warm Dean’s skin, but when they were gone there wasn’t even ash left from the feather. “Azrael is not my friend,” he said lowly, probably barely loud enough for Dean to hear. 

“This is all nonsensical babbling. I don’t even recognize half the words on here,” Bobby said, running his hand over the lettering. It was engraved into the glass of the mirror and some of it was still glowing faintly. “What I can make out is something is laying siege to hell. Something big, see this here ‘archangelus’ its Latin for archangel, and here reads ‘the blind god’ whatever that means. Cas, can you make heads or tails of this?” 

“I’ll take a look at it,” the angel said, moving closer to stand next to Sam and Bobby. He gripped the mirror and turned it so he could look at it better. “These aren’t words they’re names,” he said, pointing out the words that Bobby and Sam couldn’t translate. “Azazel, Gadreel, Bernael... I know these names.” He frowned and ran his hand over the text as if to clear it. 

“I thought they were dead… I was told they were dead,” he muttered, narrowing his eyes and thinking. “Ozryel? But… He’s not among them… and Samael? I watched him die.”

Dean yelped and turned back hurriedly just as flames ignited around the feather he still held; they lit up his immediate surroundings, briefly, and he had just enough time to notice something, some sort of flinch, pass behind Castiel's eyes before the angel muttered something under his breath and stalked over to Bobby and Sam.

"Shit, man, a little warning would've been nice," he also muttered, standing back a few feet from the group and examining his hand briefly. It was un-singed, but he didn't like being taken off his guard and he'd just had two different angels do it in just as many minutes and it was starting to get old.

Sam shot him a questioning glance while Castiel examined the mirror and Dean, standing behind the angel, quickly mimed a grumpy, angry face. His brother quirked an eyebrow and he answered the unspoken question with a huge shrug, mouthing the words 'I don't know' before crossing his arms.

Of course, after that everything went back to their usual, gloom, doom and random bits of latin, and suddenly there were angel names flying all over the place. Dean sighed and finally approached the table, sticking his hands in his pockets and giving Castiel a wide berth. "So, this isn't just a run-of-the-mill demon operation, then? This tells us what, exactly? These are the folks responsible for the dry demonic spell we been having?"

"And all of them angels," Sam added, brow furrowing as he looked up from the mirror and slowly drew himself up to his full height, unfolding upwards to try and catch Castiel's gaze. "Are you sure everything's... going the way it's supposed to up there?"

"I don't get it," Dean mused, prodding uncertainly at the mirror. "We ask about demons and we get angel names? How does that make sense? Why would angels be causing demonic omens if there're no demons around?" He also turned to Castiel, struggling not to mirror Sammy's frown; he'd caught on ages ago that sometimes to get a clear answer out of Cas it was easier to just play it cool than go for his usual direct confrontational approach. Sometimes. Like when the angel was already jittery as hell.

"Bobby said 'laying siege', Cas. Any idea what's going on?"

“These… angels are...” Castiel’s voice was tight. “They fell… a very long time ago. “ He frowned and ran his hand over the lettering again. “These names are of angels that where… are?” He tilted his head slightly. “From Lucifer’s garrison. When he was cast out a full third of the heavenly host fell with him, because they followed him.”

“Except for three archangels.” He didn’t want to tell these humans this, he shouldn’t tell them about this but he had to. So they would understand. “Lucifer had two lieutenants; one was Samael, who is dead. I watched him die with my own eyes. And Azrael, who killed Samael when he tried to convince him to fall. The third is Abaddon who simply didn’t fall.” Castiel frowned and tilted his head as he read the mirror again.

“But the rest were soldiers that all of heaven was told died. We couldn’t hear them any more so we believed it. If these… angels are moving, are being rallied and laying siege to hell who or whatever is leading them must be loyal to Lucifer. That is the only way they’d bow to anyone. It’s possible they are attacking demons loyal to Crowley to weaken hell.” He narrowed his eyes. “The text reads, ‘An unholy host lays siege to hell, while their lofty brethren do battle in heaven. The face of the enemy is the face of Death and the world quakes before him.’ Then it gives three places where they might be found. De Lamar, Idaho as well as Vulture Mine and Wolf Hole in Arizona.”

“It would be unwise to attempt to face the fallen. They may have unforeseen power,” he said, looking up at the group of them and hoping that they would heed him for a change.

“Unwise or not if these things are causing trouble we’ve got to deal with them," Bobby said and Castiel’s shoulders slumped. Of course they wouldn’t heed his warnings. They never did.

Dean saw his brother slump back down as Castiel droned on, explaining what they would be facing and knew, instinctively and as always, that he'd have to pick up the slack and drive them all forward. Sammy had the drive, yes, but they were both just a bit tired of getting involved in things they didn't understand, of fighting creatures much too powerful for them and ending up in battles way, way, way over their heads.

He also knew that Sam knew he was exhausted, had had a few unpleasant talks with both his brother -and- the angel before about simply giving up and rolling over and wasn't about to fall back into that trap. For one thing, -he- wasn't the one Sam should be protecting, at all, and for another he simply couldn't stand the moping around.

So he nodded, firmly, and waited until Cas finished explaining. They could, the four of them, take on anything, he knew that as well as he knew his own damned name. And his little internal pep-talk would've gone just peachy if Castiel hadn't started actually -reading- the damned mirror. Something like a frown developed on the angel's forehead, blue eyes narrowing dangerously and his voice dropped several tones as he read, the words slamming into Dean's gut like swift, brutal punches. He actually had to blink and shake his head when he realized Sammy actually -had- punched him.

Because he'd been staring. For probably way too long. At Cas. After the angel had finished speaking and Bobby's voice broke through whatever freaky trance he'd been in. 

"Are you -high-, Dean?" Sam asked, staring at him, completely bewildered.

"I... 'Course not. I'm fine. Just eager to get this party started," Dean answered with a forced grin, turning his gaze to Bobby. "So, then, three spots, and we have no idea how much time we got before whatever this is starts to smell. Split up? Two of us take Idaho, the other two take Arizona and we keep in constant contact. Anybody finds anything, we regroup and charge in."

“I’d just like to repeat myself and say this is a bad idea," Castiel said, frowning. He knew he could refuse to help them, and that he should refuse. He should have gone to heaven and demanded Azrael tell him everything he knew. But he would lose an ally if he did that, an ally he couldn’t afford to lose. So he wouldn’t refuse to help his friends.

He closed his eyes for a moment and let the comfort over the heavenly choir settle whatever doubts he had. Doubts were dangerous; they would distract him. He’d proclaimed himself as the Winchesters' protector and he could not let himself be distracted from that.

“We heard you the first time,” Bobby said gruffly. “Alright Dean, you and Cas go to Arizona. If it gets too hot Cas can zap you both to safety. Sam and I will go to Idaho. I got some tricks that might surprise the fallen angels.” He let himself grin slightly. “You gunna burn the book like Azrael demanded?”

“What book?” Castiel said, pointedly not looking at the tome Azrael had wanted destroyed as he pulled on his suit jacket. “There are many books here, Azrael never said which. Destroying them all would be wasteful.”

"Good, so that's settled. We split up, Angelcakes here thinks it's a bad idea," Dean quipped as soon as Bobby had finished speaking and Cas had, surprisingly, agreed not to destroy the book. He shot the old hunter a pensive look, debated telling the man to make a copy anyway, just in case, and finally decided it was probably already in Bobby's plans. This wasn't his show, right here in this cabin with the books and the information, it was Bobby's and Bobby ran it better than anyone he knew.

He quickly sauntered out of range of Castiel's hand, in case the angel got it into his head that instant angel-mojo flight would be a good way to get there, and walked past Sammy, sending him an unspoken demand to watch his ass out there. He almost opened his mouth to speak but Sam beat him to it.

"Go, I'll call if we find anything."

"Right, we got two spots to visit, so we'll leave right away. We can crash on the road and it'll give us time to plan ahead," he said, quickly snatching a fistful of popcorn on the way towards the stairs. The Impala was already packed, the trunk full near to bursting with weapons. Dean detoured upstairs while he nibbled on the stolen popcorn, stuffed a duffel bag full of spare clothes, picked up his favoured gun from under his pillow and stuck it in the back of his jeans before barreling back downstairs.

He paused once he reached the door and turned back towards Sam, briefly, got an exasperated look and a shooing motion then finally turned his green eyes on Castiel, hefting the bag heavily onto his shoulder as he opened the door. 

"Time's a wasting, Cas. If you delay the driver, you get to do the laundry later on. One more rule for you to learn," he said with a conspiratorial grin, grateful to finally be -doing- something.

“It would be exponentially faster for me to simply take us there, Dean,” Castiel grumbled, knowing full well Dean could have a severed limb and he’d still rather drive to safety than be flown. So the angel pulled on his trench coat and waited for Dean to collect his things. 

Bobby and Sam went about cleaning up the mess from the ritual and shortly after the book was whisked away into a pile of others just like it and moved out of sight. He didn’t bother to comment, instead let himself reach out to touch Balthazar during his duties in heaven. He told his brother angel to keep an eye out and keep him updated if possible. 

Balthazar was the best angel to ask to spy on anything so he was comfortable with asking this of him. He focused on Dean as soon as the man entered the room and felt more than heard Balthazar's bemused farewell. “I was waiting on you,” Castiel said with no small amount of amusement before flying himself –and Dean’s bag- to the impala. 

Bobby snorted out a chuckle. “I would hurry, boy. Before he decides he’s just going to zap you and the car there because you’re taking too long,” the older hunter said as he swept up the chalk off the floor.

The brief thump of a wingbeat was -totally- unexpected, and when Dean looked up from his empty hands, no duffel bag in sight, Bobby was grinning at him and Sam looked like he was about to burst into laughter. "Cram it, Sammy. I swear if he so much as touches the radio..." he grumbled as he spun on his heel and stalked out, Sam's laughter echoing after him.

The Impala was parked where he'd left it--thankfully, Bobby's words had made his heart do a complicated little dance in his chest at the thought of Cas just poofing his car out of existence--and he could just about make out Castiel's head poking over the top of the passenger's seat. Still grumbling, he walked around the car, opened the driver's side door and got in, throwing the angel a somewhat half-assed and not particularly serious glare.

"You... You do that thumpy wing poof thing way too often, man," he accused, sticking the key in the ignition a little rougher than was needed. Dean twisted in his seat, glanced around the back of the car and arched a brow at Castiel. "My bag?"

“Your bag is in the trunk, Dean,” Castiel said, glancing over at him with a small smile on his lips. He was learning that teasing was not a bad thing and it gave him a bit of satisfaction to be able to keep up with his friends even just a little bit. “And as far as I can tell the weather and the roads on all possible routes are clear.” 

It would have been easier to just teleport them all there when Dean got into the car. But he doubted him ‘mojoing’ Dean’s ‘baby’ would go over well. Considering the look of panic that had been on Dean’s face when he first left the cabin, it was probably a very bad idea.

"Right... Well... Thank you, I guess. Just... don't do it again," Dean muttered, aware that the two bits of sentence that came out of his mouth made absolutely zero sense. He sighed, peered critically at the radio and put the car in gear, accelerating out of the car yard and fiddling with the radio as soon as the tires hit open road. Music--something of a power ballad and it was a bit of an affront to the senses, really--blasted out and he toned it down a few notches. He doubted he could get away with much more than this without suffering what he had come to know as Cas' pleading face, which was a sort of cross between the angry brooding from earlier, this playful mood and an agonizing puppy.

Speaking of which, he had promised himself he would get answers about what the hell had happened back there. He was loathe, though, to destroy whatever light mood they had going, so he snuck a side glance at the angel as he shifted and accelerated, letting the car nearly drive itself and eat away the first few miles of their journey.

"This..." He gestured with his right hand, pointing at Castiel and then back at himself rapidly before returning his hand to the wheel. "This is nice. Better than whatever brooding you were doing back at Bobby's. Out on the road, no mojoing people places, right? It's nice."

“This mode of transportation is slow. Though your ancestors used horses and their own feet which was considerably slower,” Castiel said evenly. He was still more or less teasing Dean, though it was the truth and he would have preferred to get things over with quickly. The angel licked his lips and glanced over at Dean. 

“I was not brooding earlier. It’s… distressing to learn that Michael has lied about the fallen being dead. My first instinct was go crying it to the rest of the host. But that would do no good, and quite a lot of harm if Raphael decided to attempt bringing them back into the host.” He shrugged slightly and looked out the window. “I cannot fight a war on two fronts and if the Fallen truly are aiming to free Lucifer….” He made something of a helpless gesture and folded his hands in his lap.

"Yeah well... Better this over flying, Cas. Baby'll get us there, don't you worry, and this way we'll have time to plan ahead a bit," Dean answered, distracted by the road rolling by under the car and the blessed, glorious feeling of simply -going- somewhere, leaving one place behind and thundering towards another. It had always felt a bit therapeutic, to him.

"Your way always lands us smack-fucking-dab in boiling water, man." He chanced a quick glance at the angel and caught sight of a brief, lost look that flitted across Castiel's face before he turned away, reminded once again that shit was happening upstairs that nobody knew about.

Cas had been fighting this war pretty much on his own upstairs for, no pun intended, God knew how long, and neither he nor Sam could really do shit about it unless the angel damn well got down a few pegs on his evolutionary ladder of self-importance and actually -asked- for help. He'd done so once--Dean had done so too many times to count--and had received it. He didn't understand why Cas kept all his heaven bullshit so secret.

"'Nother shot at the Apocalypse, huh? Man, that song is getting -old-," he griped, swerving the car into a long turn with a little more gas than he should have, and sighing as the momentum of the turn forced him to the left a bit. "Is it really going all to shit again, Cas?" he asked after a long pause, turning a look on the angel that was both a little pissed and a lot exhausted.

“I am doing the best I can to prevent it from doing so. Azrael’s aid… brought my side of this civil war back from the brink of destruction,” Castiel said with a sigh. “And don’t think I’m not asking for your help because I think ‘mere humans’ –as the other angels would put it- cannot help.” He glanced over at Dean then down to his hands. “If I thought you could help I would ask. But much of the fighting is in heaven where you cannot go without dying, and I won’t ask you to die for me.”

“I am doing all I can to prevent Michael and Lucifer from being freed, many are. Try not to worry about it… realistically, it will go on long after your natural lifespan.” It sounded cold but it was true. Angels favoured long planned battles to anything else. They could easily be at war for hundreds of years.

He kept looking down at his hands, and not for the first time he wished he could just rip out his grace and become human. Travel with Dean and Sam and pretend he had never been anything more. But that would be giving up and he couldn’t give up; it would condemn the world. 

"... Get out of my head, Cas," Dean said automatically as the angel more or less plucked his own thoughts from his mind. But it didn't have the usual bite, sounded more sad than actually angry so Dean shut up, frowning as the angel's low voice turned sour and just a tad bitter.

And he had known he couldn't do much, neither he nor Sam nor, probably, anyone else. To hear it just laid out though was something else entirely, something he knew he could never accept. Rolling over and giving up had been a mistake before; all he could rely on now was what he'd always relied on. Training, good instinct and a stubborn streak a mile long. It hadn't really failed him in the past. Got him in shit loads of trouble, yes, but never failed him.

"And hey, I've died before. It's very overrated, lemme tell you. But no big deal," he added, lying through his teeth and silently willing Cas to let this one drop. "Anyway, okay, it's... pretty grim, at the moment. But we're gonna be on the road for a few days, and you need to cheer up, cause I'm not staring at your angry mug for that long, okay? Holiday, remember? I'm still gonna damn well take that holiday."

And if that meant stopping at every seedy bar between here and Arizona, dragging the angel over to strip joints and buying tons of porn to get an amusing rise out of the angel--despite all the awkward this inevitably would provoke--then that's exactly what Dean would do. This, he kept to himself though, just in case Cas panicked and balked. Which would also be fun, he had to admit as he shuffled under the dash on Castiel's side, extricated a very old Best of AC/DC tape and stuck it in the car's cassette player. The first few bars of Highway to Hell came at a tentative volume and Dean cranked it up a bit, rolled down his window and shot Castiel a grin he hoped would be contagious.

"By the time we're there, I swear I'll have you singing along," he near shouted over Bon Scott's distorted voice.

“I’ve died a few times myself, Dean,” Castiel said with a small chuckle. “Though I could probably mention the fact that angels do not go anywhere when we die, that we simply cease to be in any sense of the word.” He shrugged slightly. “But that is not of import; I will attempt to cheer up as you wish for me to do so.”

He changed the subject then, dragging Dean’s attention first to the music –which was terrible in his opinion- then to the general mechanics of driving. Castiel let Dean drone on about these mundane topics and forced himself not to think too hard about the fact that, in a few hand spans of years, two of the greatest friends he had ever had would be dead. 

Several hours later he found himself standing in the middle of a questionably-clean hotel room. It made his skin crawl a bit so he expended an unwise amount of his grace to clean it. Only then did he remove his trench coat and sit on the edge of one of the two beds in the room.

The way here had been mildly relaxing, the road easy to follow and the long stretches of highway so familiar Dean thought he might've managed to drive his way up to the dingy roadside motel nearly with his eyes closed. Cas had been entertaining enough, in his own slightly awkward, quiet way and they'd stopped by a ridiculously under stocked, miniature gas station just a few miles before the hotel, where Dean had picked up a heavy paper bag full of fresh donuts--it was already going a bit transparent with fat at the bottom--and two beers.

In short, he was feeling pretty damned good when they finally reached the hotel room, just exhausted enough from the long drive to know, in his bones, that he would soon be sleeping like a baby. He sauntered into the room before Castiel, duffel bag slung on one shoulder, two beers in one hand, the paper bag dangling from his mouth, and threw the hotel keys on a low table before pitching his duffel bag up and onto one of the beds, just as the angel dropped on its edge.

Dean blinked--Sammy usually let him pick which bed he wanted, which was generally the one closest to the door, but of course Cas didn't know about that--and shrugged, picking up his bag again and moving it to the other bed. The angel was just sitting there, looking strangely slight without the bulk of all that tan fabric; he hadn't noticed before, in Bobby's cabin, because he'd been much too preoccupied with first Azrael and then having his hand taken over by a magical angelic feather, but Castiel without the trench coat was definitely slimmer than he'd imagined at first.

The nerdy accountant disguise was, at times, too damned perfect not to grin. Until of course the angel opened his mouth; and that was generally when Dean -did- grin. He pushed to the back of his mind all those times when Cas had been too... otherworldly to comprehend--those first few meetings, for one--and concentrated on the here and now as he deftly opened himself a beer, leaving the other one on the bedside table should the angel change his mind about the taste.

He helped himself to a donut as he shrugged off his scuffed leather jacket, stuck the donut in his mouth and toed off his shoes before extending the nearly transparent bag at Castiel.

"Donut? They're perfect," he offered. "Or, hey, if you don't -need- to eat, they can keep until tomorrow morning, for breakfast."

“No, thank you,” Castiel said after a brief glance at the bag of donuts. He could eat if he wanted to, but it wasn’t something he needed to do and whatever it was that Dean was devouring did not seem palatable to him in the slightest. “You keep them to break your fast with.”

He doubted they would last long enough to make it to morning and knew they would find themselves at the diner just down the street come the morning. He would probably have to eat something then, if only to blend in. He glanced skyward and tilted his head as several angel voices rang through his head. Something was happening and he needed to be there. 

“I… must go for a little while, Dean,” he said, standing. “I will be back before you leave in the morning.” He stood then and without even waiting for Dean to reply he –and his coat- were gone with the beat of wings.

Dean only slightly managed to hide a faint frown as the angel refused the donuts--and he wasn't even sure -why- he was frowning, because they were goddamned delicious, and warm and fucking fat and sugary as hell, so, really, it was Castiel's loss if he didn't want any--before Cas went all rigid and strange on his ass.

He sat up straighter on the very lumpy bed and tilted his head as Castiel's eyes went all blurry and unfocused. For a brief second he fought the urge to reach out and offer help--though, really, what could he have done to help?--and then Cas was getting up and he only had time to nod, half a donut still hanging from his mouth, before the angel had just vanished.

And -then- he frowned, because life on the road on his own was fun, but sharing it with someone else was even better. "Yeah, okay... I guess I'll be here, then," he voiced into the empty air, voice gradually becoming louder until the last words were nearly shouted. "Fucking mysterious angels, they're all the same."

At least, and this he thought dimly as he finished off the rest of his first beer before opening the other, at least he still had cable, and a very illegal credit card, and a fake name to go along with it. And who would possibly know if he added a few dollars to his morning bill by tuning in to things which were definitely not very angelic at all, and very definitely didn't remind him of the time Cas had watched porn in a similarly dingy motel room. Most of all these things didn't remind him of Castiel's lips, or of that faint tilt of his head when he got confused, or of the hesitant way he sometimes placed a hand on Dean's shoulder, right over the mark he knew would never heal.

It took a fucking long time for him to actually sleep, and by the time he'd managed it he'd long since discarded a few kleenexes and turned the TV off. Sleep came to him in stages, as it usually did now, as it had for a long while. He fought it, at first, tried to push back against the rising tide of darkness at the edge of consciousness. But he was beat, and it took over easily; and when it did it brought with it the dreams, the dreams he'd been having--and denying--for months. 

It brought pain and screams and suffering and -thirty years of hanging on- and then worse things, things he would deny even to himself until he died, and beyond that. It brought mindless, endless years, merging into each other until, in one bright, dizzying flash it had all ended. And in that flash he saw something, something which he knew, could recognize, had touched, but the dream went on beyond what he had known before, beyond the point where he usually woke, until he was choking with the pain of that bright, dizzying light, until the air was beaten and drawn out of lungs that didn't exist anymore.

Castiel returned to the hotel sometime in the night after Dean had fallen asleep. There had been an issue that had not truly needed his attention in heaven. He removed his trench coat and hung it over one of the chairs in the hotel room. 

That’s when he noticed Dean was tossing and turning in the middle of a nightmare. Frowning, Castiel moved to lean over the man and gripped his shoulder lightly, shaking him –as he had seen Sam do in the past when he needed his brother awake-. “Dean,” he said, fighting the temptation to see what dream ailed Dean so. ”Wake up, you’re dreaming.”

He should not have left Dean alone; he could have waited and offered to induce sleep for the man. At least then he did not seem to dream. Castiel couldn’t explain why he felt so compelled to protect Dean from the terrors his mind produced. He’d held the man’s soul in his hands, had seen it at its very worse, bereft of hope and teetering on the edge of the abyss. 

Dean could never know just what raising him from perdition had cost Castiel. Because it was not about what Castiel had given up for Dean. It was that Dean had been saved that mattered. Castiel could have resented the fact he was fractured at the core of his being because of Dean, but instead he only wished to protect the man.

The dream fractured and broke as Dean pushed through it--it always did, when morning came, but it was never an easy waking--and he shuddered himself awake with a faint, choked-out gasp. There were still spots dancing behind his eyelids, weak and almost unseen, as though he'd been staring at the intense light of the sun for too long and suddenly turned his eyes onto a piece of dark paper.

Something, though, something was shaking him, moving him, and he struggled upright, flailed both hands upwards for that warmth--warmth, not heat, never heat, not after the horror he had seen and witnessed and, above all, caused--and he clawed and gripped at warmth until it drew closer and he could almost breathe it in. 

Slowly, ever so slowly, his heartbeat settled, returned to what seemed like something a normal human heart would do, and that's when he noticed there was fabric under his fingers, bunched and wrinkled where he'd nearly dug his blunt fingernails into it. 

And scent, warm and inviting, and somehow clean and smelling faintly of that brief glimpse of sunlight you got after thundershowers in the summer, when everything was drenched but content, when the flowers were nearly bent from the force of the downpour but you knew everything would simply right itself with just a few minutes' worth of sunlight. 

That's when he realized, of course, that the warm cloth under his fingertips was suspiciously familiar, that he was clutching one hand at Castiel's shoulder, the other buried somewhere deep within the angel's vest in some recess somewhere, and that his face was nearly touching Castiel's throat, that he was leaning upwards against the angel's chest, clutching at him as though he was a lifeline to salvation.

Dean coughed, very quickly disentangled his hands from wherever the fuck they had been and managed a very weak glare up at Castiel. It was a few seconds before he found his voice, and when he did he was surprised at how gruff and throaty he sounded, even to his own ears.

"Never, ever, mention this to anyone. Ever," he grumbled, pushing himself up and off the bed slowly, practically willing the dancing spots behind his eyelids to disappear as he got up on trembling legs to stand, dizzy and half-awake, at the side of the bed.

Castiel made a low, surprised sound when Dean clung to him and pressed right past that line of personal space the man was always on about. He didn’t know what to do other than stand there bent over Dean and let him cling. He had the absurd urge to pull Dean protectively close and wrap his wings around them both. But before he could decide that he would Dean pulled away quickly and Castiel took that as a hint to stand up straight and take a step back.

“Mention what?” he queried, tilting his head to the side. He wasn’t even sure what had just happened but he was sure that he hadn’t minded it and would probably welcome it happening again. He was worried about Dean and what he’d been dreaming about to cause that reaction.

He reached out to grip Dean’s shoulder again, ending up by habit or instinct to the brand on Dean’s arm. “Dean, are you alright?” he asked, concern clear in his tone. He wished he knew more about comforting humans because he could tell Dean needed comforting.

Some part of Castiel knew that pulling Dean out of hell had been no real salvation for the man. His torture may have been ended but the world was no paradise. That thought made his chest twinge strangely, though he had no idea why. Perhaps it was something to do with their unique bond.

Dean stumbled towards the other bed, flailing one hand onto the side table for support--but only briefly, because he quickly recuperated and managed to stand up straight--and glancing quickly around the dimly-lit motel room to try and find his bearings again. The room was thankfully empty, and though he briefly expected Sammy's voice to ring out in concern, he didn't even flinch when he recognized Castiel's--yes, Cas, Cas, who he'd been nearly huddling against, when he'd woken--voice raising instead.

There was light, or at least the promise of light, and Dean coughed in the slowly brightening room. "I just... Never mind, I'm fine. Why are you even still here? I thought you angels didn't sleep?" he muttered, nearly more to himself as he slowly drew himself up, dragging a shaking hand up and over his face briefly.

The dream was still fresh in his mind, Castiel's presence in the room making it even more real, a faint, nearly-there reminder of something terrible ending. He frowned, forced himself to bury the memories again, as he did nearly every morning, and slowly turned back towards Cas--angel, immortal, or as near to it as didn't matter, otherworldly and yet nearly close--and managed a tense shrug. He felt the sharp edges recede in his mind--but never disappear, not even close--, chased away by the waking world and this very real sense of purpose, of something important to accomplish.

At the very least, they had a job to do, a hunt to get back to, and, as it had been the last few months, that was a goddamned blessing. "Any news from Sam and Bobby?" he finally asked as he shrugged out of his rumpled shirt and pulled a fresh one from the duffel bag, still unpacked, at the foot of the bed. He wriggled into this new shirt, forced his feet into a pair of clean socks and hesitated, all of half a second, before deciding against changing out of his jeans--God knew they'd barely spent a moment on him once the angel had left and the TV had distracted him, so it hardly mattered--and shouldering the duffel bag again.

Castiel frowned and reached for Dean’s shoulder again. “Dean, it’s barely four AM,” he said with a frown. “You need to rest.” It was a bad idea to suggest Dean sleep more, he knew that. But the man would run himself into the ground and make himself ill. 

“I have no news from Sam or Bobby,” he added as he attempted to gently steer Dean back towards sitting on the bed. He was going to make a point of inducing sleep every chance he got. This sort of mad panic was worrying. 

So he broke his own personal rule and took a peek at what Dean had been dreaming of. He wished he hadn’t, it was jumbled and chaotic and it wasn’t just –hell- the man dreamt off, but the moment he’d been raised from perdition. His grip tightened on Dean’s shoulder and he exhaled sharply. “Dean, I implore you try to rest more,” he said lowly as he tried to sort through the man’s jumbled and hazy memories.

He could remember that moment perfectly and he would for all eternity. They had numbered twenty strong when they’d first pierced the flames of hell to find the Righteous Man. One by one his brothers had fallen in their siege on hell, until only he and Uriel had remained. Uriel had been injured and forced to fall back, leaving Castiel to go on alone.

He’d found Dean’s soul chained to a rack, nude except for the blood and gore from the soul he was torturing. A great black cloud of a demon was oozing around both souls, whispering praise that cut as deeply as the razor in Dean’s hand did. He hadn’t hesitated then, for he had known it was his duty to raise Dean Winchester from perdition. The demon had seized the razor from Dean and attacked him with it.

That had been the first time Castiel had ever truly felt pain, when the blade had cut into his wing. It had startled him and he’d been cut again for that. But a surge of pure angelic grace had banished the demon from the area and given him the chance to grip the cowering soul of Dean Winchester tight and raise him from hell. He remembered how it had screamed and fought as he gripped it. 

Finally, he simply took the duffle from Dean’s hand and gave him a hard enough push to make him sit. “Do you know what it is you were dreaming off?” he asked very quietly.

"I don't -need- to rest, Cas, this is what I do," Dean mumbled, brow furrowing as he felt--and this was a rare thing--the angel's hand against his shoulder, quite obviously trying to corral him back towards the lumpy mattress from which he'd just risen. Something like anger flared briefly in his gut--where the fuck had Cas been, when he'd been screaming his voice raw, trying to find a way to help Sam, trying to prevent what had, ultimately, led to his brother's little trip downstairs?--but it flared out about as quickly as it rose.

Because Castiel's hand was on his shoulder, and he felt -something- answer the touch, rising as warmth and a sort of longing--out, out, out, out and up, please, no more, no more, NO--straight up from the core of him and outwards. For a few mad seconds he was certain Castiel must have sensed something, or seen something, because the angel stilled, eyes going slightly glassy, and he looked right through Dean, or into him, until he couldn't stand that gaze anymore.

"I'm fine, I said, really, it's just..." A damn dream, nothing more, it was over, he was out, had been out for months. But he crumpled when Castiel pushed against him, backwards and against the lumpy mattress which wasn't his and hadn't been slept into, trying to still, or hide, the shaking of his hands as he let go of the bag. 

Blood and pain surfaced in his mind when he blinked, a half-second of stunned silence, a punch in the gut of recollection, and he couldn't be certain if it was so damned vivid because Castiel was there, forcing the memories to the surface, or because the memories had always been there.

He opened and shut his mouth a few times, then closed his eyes, trying, and failing, to ignore screams he knew weren't real, weren't in the here and now. 

"I was dreaming... Hell. Always hell, every night," he finally admitted, for the first time since briefly touching on the subject with Sam, when his brother had forced an explanation out of him. But even that had been gentler; this was raw, and it felt fresh, like a memory just uncovered. 

He couldn't go back there, couldn't open the gates as he knew Sammy had, knew he wouldn't survive it. So Dean opened his eyes, blearily, and fixed them on what he knew was real, which was Castiel's very worried-looking face, looking more human than he'd ever seen him. "And... you, I think."

He had to tell him, Castiel understood that now. He’d never known that Dean’s dreams were plagued with memories of hell, he’d never bothered to find out. “I owe you an apology, Dean, and an explanation,” he said quietly as he squatted down to bring his face more to Dean’s level.

“You… are not dreaming of hell. You’re dreaming of the moment I raised you from perdition,” he said softly, looking down at the floor. He wanted to touch Dean to try and offer comfort but he didn’t know what was allowable in a situation like this. He cursed his lack of knowledge on human customs and looked into Dean’s eyes.

He could remember those eyes and how they’d looked in hell. They had been hopeless and ready to submit to everything the demons wanted from him. “I was not aware you… remembered it,” he admitted with a low sigh. He reached out and laid his hand against the brand on Dean’s arm. He remembered how hard it had been to keep hold of Dean’s thrashing, screaming soul as he laboured to bring them both out of hell, how blood and gore covered hands had clawed at his arm and pried at his fingers to try and break free.

The angel sighed again, gave into the inevitable and allowed his wings to manifest and encircle Dean without touching him. They were smaller than Azrael’s had been and were black as well, but had none of the luster; instead of a uniform black they were sort an uneven ash to black colour like something exposed to smoke and fire without being close enough to burn. They looked sort of scruffy and rumpled, much like Castiel’s vessel did. But where Azrael’s had been shaped something like a crow's wings, Castiel’s shared a shape with eagle wings. There was a nasty knot of scarring on the right one that looked like it had been Alastair’s handy work.

"An apology? An apology for pulling me out of hell? You... got to be shitting me, Cas," Dean blurted, now struggling to just stop -shaking- like a goddamned twelve year old girl. Breaking down in front of Sammy was bad enough; but he'd heard the 'have to keep fighting' speech from every side for long enough to know that breaking down in front of an actual angel of the Lord just wasn't fucking done.

"And of course I remember it. Remember almost everything. Every day of every year and I'd be lying if I said..." That's where he stopped, of course, because what he wanted to say was that he was totally, completely flying blind, lost, and scared shitless of drowning in the memories of what had happened, of what he had been put through, of what, ultimately, he had done to escape. Taking the knife to Alastair hadn't changed anything, though he'd balked, refused, hadn't wanted to face what he'd been in hell.

But it was just there, whether he went down that road again or not; he had broken down, had kneeled and cried and begged and accepted anything to be taken off the damn rack, and when they'd pressed the knife into his shaking hand the very first time, he'd been -glad- to turn it on someone else, had been relieved as he'd carved into flesh that, for the first time since his destroyed, scattered mind could remember, he wasn't in pain. 

He was so lost in the memories that he almost didn't notice when the soft, fluttering thump happened around him and for a moment he flailed for a reason; the room was still quiet, and Castiel had already been nearby. It wasn't until he finally looked up from his clenched hands that he saw--wings, beating fiercely and yet somehow still around him, and pulling, upwards and away from the rack--and wings now too, blackened and somewhat ruffled-looking, not nearly as massive or impressive as Azrael's had been.

But -these- he knew, or thought he knew; and he knew Castiel, and couldn't shy away, not when those nearly singed feathers were practically his fault. He blinked, tore his eyes away from those wings only to nearly double-take when he realized Cas was practically -kneeling- in front of him; and oh, he had no idea where the thought sprang up from, but that couldn't be good, would get him in surefire trouble with upstairs, to have a freaking angel kneeling like this in a really shifty motel room.

Castiel's face was open, and honest, it generally was, so Dean sighed, glanced up at the feathers again and -remembered-. "I tried... I pushed you away. Thought if I left the... if I stopped doing what they'd asked, they'd take m... take me back to the rack," he finally choked out, eyes wide and unseeing. 

And this was another memory he wasn't sure he could, right now, deal with. One hand flailed upwards, went for Dean's face, brushed shakily against his brow and reached out for what would've been Castiel's shoulder if the angel had just been sitting up a little higher. As it was, Dean's fingers encountered nothing but strange softness--feathers, his mind supplied, wings, Cas' wings--and an exhausted, thin chuckle bubbled out of him at the absurdity of all of this. Finally, for the first time in a long, long while, he slowly gave up, slumped forward a bit and muttered, nearly under his breath. "Sleep. Cas, I... need... sleep, please. Now."

Castiel started when Dean touched his wing; he hadn’t expected the contact. He shivered slightly and fought the urge to shrug Dean’s hand off. “You did try to stop me, you tried, as did Alastair and many other demons,” he said quietly. “But you’re right, you do need to sleep, Dean. Tomorrow we can continue this conversation.”

His wings rustled but and circled around Dean almost protectively. He didn’t want to do anything to make Dean feel like he was going to leave. Because he wasn’t, not again or anytime soon. It struck him that Dean hadn’t even thought about his wings and how damaged they were. That pleased him for some reason that he couldn’t explain. 

“I could if you’d like.” He tilted his head to side and with level amusement used Dean’s phrasing from earlier that day. “Mojo you to sleep as you call it.” He would probably put Dean to sleep either way but as least he was offering it as an option first this time. He could protect Dean from anything that might attempt to harm them in the night so putting him into a deep sleep did not worry him at all.

Cas didn't shuffle closer--if he'd had, Dean would probably have shaken himself aware, because this, this clinging and everything that came with it, was already pretty damned close to something uncomfortable, and the sort of shit he'd never, ever hear the end of--but he felt something lean closer, almost enough to touch. The fact that it was wings, and not arms, nope, he wasn't fucking shivering in some dude's arms, made it at least bearable.

This stuff was what he'd thought angels to be all about, at first, before Castiel had blown open those barn doors and pretty much destroyed the cuddly angel theory. He was damned near close to it now though, and Dean couldn't find it in himself to care. 

The sun was nearly up, but Dean could feel the sharp, dangerous edges of his mind just poking under the surface and knew he couldn't just up and go out into the world like this. He'd end up as he had before, close to breaking and going straight for booze. At least, in here, he could be sure not to make a fucking mess of things. Cas' wings looked dirtied, not at all what he'd imagined but pretty much what he could remember, and they were weirdly comforting, just like the sight of that ridiculous and obviously oversized trench coat, scruffy five o' clock shadow and the fact that Cas' tie appeared to go loose and crooked the minute he put it on.

He tried not to read too much into that, because... Well, sharp edges he could learn to deal with; he sure as hell wasn't about to throw Hallmark soft into the mix.

"We're already tomorrow. S'nearly time to get up and we should be on the road early," he muttered back, raking a hand through his short hair. It did nothing to dispel the feeling that his head was folding in on itself but at least the motion made him feel a bit more human and a bit less monster. He made absolutely no move to get up, though, and finally nodded at Castiel, glancing down only very quickly at the angel's hand, which, he hadn't noticed, was still on his arm.

"Yeah... Mojo'd be nice. It's either that or that really shitty bar we passed on the side road over here and I think it's closed," he finally, grudgingly admitted. "But only a few hours, mind. Can't let those two other bozos get their asses kicked before we even -get- to Arizona." And he couldn't let himself get used to that sleep, because if he did, he'd never ever seek his damned pillow on his own. Dreamless, deep sleep was miles better than the sad attempt his own body threw at him every night.

Castiel nodded and reached up to touch his fingers to Dean’s forehead. “I’ll wake you in a few hours, Dean,” he promised even as he nudged Dean’s mind into sleep. He tensed to take the man’s weight as he went limp against him and kept his wings circled around Dean as he picked him up and put him back on the bed he’d been sleeping on.

Castiel thought for a long moment before shifting Dean to the other side of the bed and pulling the blanket over him. Some part of him told him to leave it at that and let Dean rest normally. But he couldn’t because that meant leaving Dean to face his demons alone. So he laid himself down on the bed next to Dean and pulled the sleeping man closer to him and folded his wings around them both.

Dean would probably react poorly to this when he woke up, but Castiel was willing take whatever fit Dean would throw over personal space to ensure he slept peacefully.

Relief, and, finally, silence and darkness, came with the by now familiar feel of Cas' fingers against Dean's forehead. He had time to wonder, hazily, if touching was actually required--didn't make much sense that it was, when you considered everything the angels could do--but it was a pretty brief thought and he didn't even care if he slumped like a drunken fratboy once his vision started blurring.

This time when he woke it was a hell of a lot more graceful than the previous morning, maybe because he'd been expecting the mojo-sleep this time. For whatever reason, he didn't startle-snort himself awake; instead he woke slowly, like on some of those lazy weekends he could barely remember having, when he'd had nothing to do all day except lounge around, have a few cold ones and lazily work on his baby. It was bright, though, annoyingly so, and something was tickling his face.

His first thought was that Sam was pranking him, waving something--probably disgusting or easily spilled, or hell, even a sharpie marker, the little bitch--in front of his face. "Cut it out, Sammy, Jesus fuck, not even awake yet," he muttered blearily, his mind little more than a ball of contented, still sleepy fuzz. 

And he was warm, ridiculously so, lying over the sheets--that was weird--but still comfy as shit, his back pressed tightly against a warm presence that was--what? Someone, pressed against his back. Close. Intimately close. Dean wracked his brain for a furious few seconds; motel, yes, with Cas, and had he finally just wandered off to that bar, in the end? No, the bar had been closed and-wings, pain and blood, up to his elbows in gore and the screams and then wings again...

Dean blinked, startling upwards even as his face mostly collided with a strange, rustling softness lying over a damned bar of steel--Castiel's wing, stretched out over him--and flung his body to the side, rolling off the bed and stumbling awkwardly back a few steps as his heart rate slowly went back down to normal.

And yes, Castiel -was- lying down on his bed. Wings and all. For some reason that thought wasn't as horrendously disturbing as it should've been. 

"What the hell, Cas? I mean... What the hell? You scared the bejeezus out of me," he exclaimed, blinking rapidly a few times before leaning forwards, both hands braced against his thighs. "Jesus. You had a perfectly good bed right over there," he pointed at the other, still unmade and undisturbed bed. "And what's with all the..." Dean gestured at Cas, resisting a ridiculous urge to flap his arms. "You know."

Castiel sat up and regarded Dean evenly. “You seemed to take comfort from it,” he said simply with a slight shrug. “I can see it distressed you. I apologize, it won’t happen again.” He wasn’t sure if Dean was really distressed by it or just putting on the show to prevent the implication of some homosexual overtones. 

He didn’t actually know Dean’s point of view on homosexuality and really it didn’t matter. He stood up from the bed and after a brief moment to stretch his wings out, in which the nasty scar on his right wing was clearly visible, he folded them carefully and with a rush of air they vanished. He rolled his shoulders and looked expectantly at Dean.

He had been at peace being that close to Dean. He didn’t know –why- it’d been so peaceful but he could easily admit to it. He shrugged it off as some vague emotion that he’d never felt before and waited for Dean to decide they had to leave. He was sure Dean would want to consume more of his sticky sugar-glazed pastries. 

Dean unfolded upright slowly, shook his head once to try and dispel the rest of the early morning cobwebs and more or less stalked over to the bathroom. It was old, every bit of porcelain in it was cracked, but it was clean, thank God, and it would do. 

"Just... Gimme a sec, Cas. I'll shower, we'll be on our way and we can steal breakfast somewhere up on the 85 later on," he mumbled, sort of eager to get a move on and leave this too close, too comfy hotel room behind, with all its strange waking ups and its warm beds and its -wings-. He'd seen more of Castiel's wings this morning than he'd thought he'd wanted to see, he mused as he got the water going in the shower.

He'd been curious before, but, shit, he hadn't been expecting... What, cradling? Snuggling? A fucking Sarah McLachlan song? God, it was bad whichever way he turned it, precisely because it hadn't been bad. When was the last time he'd let himself go for men, really? Back when he was still getting his stupid GED? He wasn't sure that even counted, because, well, he'd been drunk through most of it and hunting through the rest, and dropping out had been a damned relief. But to find himself caring less and less about gender when it came to Cas was disturbing, just a bit; he was supposed to be way past the age of experimenting.

And, Jesus, Sam would never let hear him the end of it, if he knew.

He didn't linger in the shower, only briskly scrubbed himself until everything that had been grimy was pink and fresh and smelling faintly of cheap hotel soap--he always smelled of cheap hotel soap, it was his lot in life, he supposed--, brushed his teeth, managed a quick and dirty shave and shuffled back outside, a towel wrapped loosely around his hips. He dug into his duffel until he found a clean pair of jeans and a t-shirt and... hesitated, suddenly unsure if he should just drop the towel here or go back into the bathroom.

Fuck. He was doomed. Sammy would laugh his way all the way back to South Dakota.

"And, hey, it's fine. I asked for sleep, anyway, and we made it through the night in one piece without anything chewing on us. Can't complain, really. I'll... be right back," he finally said, waving his jeans and shirt in his hand by way of explanation, and all but fled back into the bathroom to dress. The important thing was not to think about the dream, and the panic, and waking up warm and safe and relieved that some part of the weight had been shouldered by someone else, for once.

Which was impossible... And he'd stolen a few looks at Cas, too--as if -wanting- wasn't bad enough, of course he'd fucking advertise it like a cheerleader batting eyelashes at the quarterback--just a bit curious about why the angel had thought the bed was suddenly inviting when Dean knew he didn't need sleep. 

Castiel tilted his head to the side but stayed where he was. He wasn’t sure what he’d done to upset Dean but he knew he’d done something. He decided he wasn’t going to worry about it because either Dean would bitch at him about it or he wouldn’t; either way the angel really didn’t care.

He spent the duration of Dean’s shower in silent communication with his brothers in heaven. Azrael seemed keenly interested in the fact that the fallen third of the host seemed to be mobilizing. Of course he would be interested, they had at one point been his underlings. He hated that he couldn’t trust Azrael anymore. Or that he trusted Azrael less, he wasn’t sure which it was.

There had been a suggestion of trying to bring the fallen back into the heavenly host and on his side. It was an idea, a bad one but an idea. He would have to gage the way the fallen behaved before trying that long shot idea. Maybe he would suggest one of his loyal friends would be able to infiltrate them and tell him more about their mindset.

He turned his attention back to Dean as the man exited the bathroom again. “It’s not as if any of the creatures that normally attempt to kill you would have caused me any great difficulty. You need not worry about being turned into a meal in the night, Dean. In this instance I believe you could say you have a guardian angel.” He quirked an eyebrow at Dean and hoped he managed to get his attempt at humour correct. 

Dean was already pulling boxers up over his hips when he heard Cas' voice ring out again. He blinked, back-pedalled furiously in his mind and decided that, yep, the angel had actually made a joke. It was a shit one, it really, really was. But the attempt made him smile a bit--maybe there was hope for grumpy after all, hope that preferably didn't lead down a path of patchouli and group sex because that, honestly, was a horrible, horrible memory--and the fact that he was going retard over a damned joke just really brought home how totally fucked he was.

He stood there, boxer shorts halfway up and both hands caught in the elastic band, for a few wild seconds. Yeah, he'd smiled because the joke was bad and because it had come from Cas. Because he could admit he -liked- having the angel around, even when Cas pulled really strange shit, like that Women & Songs moment earlier, in bed. 

When it became clear that Cas wasn't going to offer anything else, Dean popped his head out through the doorway, struggling a bit as he pulled his jeans up out of sight. "Guardian angel, right; thought we'd already established you weren't here to 'perch on my shoulder'. And hey, jokes now. I mean, well... you certainly ain't the funniest in the garrison yet. But hey," he zipped up his jeans, wriggled a bit to get comfortable and finally walked back out, ducking his head slightly to pull his shirt on before slapping a hand down on Castiel's shoulder.

"First time for everything. Still gotta get you that hooker I promised. Hell, if this Apocalypse turns out to be better than the last one, we'll even get you twins, man," he added, grinning ear-to-ear and squeezing Castiel's shoulder before releasing him. 

"Come on, Casanova, I'm all for getting this show on the road, and I'm starving," he said as he stuffed yesterday's clothes haphazardly back into his duffel bag. He quickly doubled back into the bathroom to get his toothbrush and cheap, disposable razor, then returned, dumping those into the bag too. 

He zipped it up, threw it over his shoulder and again hesitated. "You don't actually need the shower, right? I'm assuming you don't, but Dean Winchester ain't infallible."

“Even if I was, I think any attempts I’d make to perch on your shoulder would be unpleasant for us both,” Castiel said with a tilt of his head and with a certain level amusement. More and more often nowadays he wished he could simply abandon his post in heaven to travel with Dean for the brief blink of time that the man would walk the earth.

“As unpleasant as the last time you tried to as you put it ‘get me laid’ was, I would rather we not attempt again. Besides, it would be unwise for me to attempt carnal relations with a human. The chances of me losing control of my grace and adversely affecting the area would be high,” he said with a slight shrug as he watched Dean picked his belongings. 

“No, Dean, I don’t need to shower, and I’m ready to go whenever you are,” Castiel said and with a rush of air he vanished from the room to sit in the car. It amused him on some level every time he transported himself somewhere and one of his human friends could see it. They generally had some of the best expressions on their faces. 

Abstractly he knew that he shouldn’t be feeling anything, feelings and emotions were not what his kind had been built for. But he’d fallen and now –even though he’d been allowed to return to heaven- he was just as prone to emotion as humans were. He just didn’t know what to do with them most of the time.

Dean blinked, and the second he opened his eyes again Castiel was gone, a faint, barely-felt brush of air against his face the only indication that some sort of weird, angelic flight shit had happened between here and wherever Cas now was. Not for the first time he wished he had actually been quick enough to catch the movement, but he hadn't even -seen- anything, even if he now knew what to look for, the image of those massive, strangely imperfect wings fucking burned into his retina. 

He tried not to delve on Cas' words--because, really, it wasn't doing him any good at all to be thinking about anything 'carnal' and 'losing control' when it came to angels, especially this one, apparently--and sighed, shouldering his bag once more and giving the room a quick once-over. It was unlikely he was forgetting anything, though, so he didn't even have any excuse to stall before grabbing the keys off the small table and closing shop. He detoured by the front office, quickly dumped the keys on the empty counter and walked back to his car.

Where, of course, Cas was already waiting, exactly as he'd been when they'd left Bobby's place. Dean chuckled, dumped the duffel in the trunk and sat himself behind the wheel. 

"Getting the hang of this, are you?" he muttered as he started the car. The familiar rumble of baby's engine made him grin, but he spared Cas' poor ears and left the radio off as he drove out of the parking lot. "I figure we should be in Arizona before nightfall. We can book a motel when we get there and head straight to the first spot on the list. Abandoned mine, was it?"

He weaved through absurdly small traffic and breathed a happy sigh when they finally got on the highway again; he knew there was a small town up ahead, where they could stop for gas and to fill his stomach, and rolled down his window, content with the easy familiarity of the road up ahead as he drummed fingers against the side of the impala's door. It was still early, though much later than he was used to waking. He tried very hard not to dwell too much on the reasons for this.

"Tell you what, when we reach the next motel, I'll let you book the room," he suddenly blurted, sneaking a side glance at Castiel's profile. "God knows, you could use a bit of practice with the mingling; you need to learn to work the 'ye olde tax accountant' angle."

Castiel looked over at Dean as he got into the impala. “I don’t see the use of me booking the room, I will never have to do so on my own,” he said levelly as they started down the highway. “Vulture mine would be the best place to start first, yes.”

He watched to arid scenery speed past with a sort of distant interest. How varied and glorious was this thing his father had created? Some of his brothers had always been jealous of humans, because they got a free ride from their father without even having to believe in him. Sometimes if Castiel let himself think about it he found he too was jealous of man. But he also pitied them, he’d seen hell and it was enough for him to pity humanity more than envy them.

He wanted to think after so many years of quiet obedience God was seeking to reward his elder children by giving them a length of freedom. Few of the other angels felt the same way but not enough, not nearly enough. So he did the best he could with what he had.


	3. Revelations and Rum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dean and Castiel meet someone new and unfriendly, someone new and very friendly, pie is involved, as is rum and a very uncomfortable admission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's are things that have not yet been explained in this one that will be explained later on, we promise.

They pulled into a little mom-and-papa sort of hotel named the ‘Roadrunner Country Side Inn’ with a cartoony looking approximation of roadrunner for a logo. There was a little sign in the window that read ‘Best gosh darn breakfast buffet in the southwest.’ Castiel tilted his head at the sign and frowned. “Why does their breakfast buffet matter?”

Dean parked the car and followed Castiel out, grabbing his bag from the trunk before pocketing his keys. "Beats me; I usually don't dine where I crash. Food's dubious, and the coffee is always reheated shit," he answered. The sign gave him pause, though; nobody proclaimed 'best gosh darn' anything without reason to do so.

"But first..." Truth be told, he sort of wanted Cas to book the damned room because it would probably be amusing, but they were here for a job, he was cramped and buzzing a bit, itching to finally get back into the game, to find out what was actually happening, now that they were here. And the sun was already starting to ride low on the horizon. It would be quicker to actually go in himself. "Here." He flung an arm out, pitching the duffel containing his clothes at Cas and went to book their room.

"Be back in a second. Don't... Just... You know, stay out of trouble," he added as an after-thought, though clearly there wasn't much here that could -cause- trouble. The front desk was surprisingly clean--if a bit on the tacky side, décor-wise--and the kid who greeted him babbled at him about the damned buffet again. Dean's stomach wanted to howl and growl because the quick bite he'd had somewhere on the 85 had been too damned little and too long ago and this kid certainly wasn't helping.

When he finally returned outside with his room-key--the kid had given him the strangest friggin' look when he'd asked for a single, peering pointedly out the window at Cas, who was just standing there looking a bit lost--he was in somewhat of a foul mood, hungry, tired, grimy and, apparently, racking up a reputation for shagging tax accountants in shabby road-side inns. That, and something had been floating around his mind all day, something about Castiel's wings, of all things, and he had no idea how to approach it with his own befuddled mind, much less with the angel.

-And- he still had the damned 'carnal-losing-control' imagery running around his brain from that morning, had been trying not to dwell on any of that shit because he just knew Cas would pull angel-mojo on his ass and pluck the thought from his mind. Because Dean Winchester had the most rotten luck. He just knew it would happen, and that was a discussion too awkward to contemplate.

So he might have been a bit gruffer than he'd intended when he unlocked the door and ushered Cas in, and he might have grumbled a bit when he made a bee-line for the first bed after flinging the room keys onto it. 

"Okay, so," he pulled his phone from the pocket of his jacket and frowned, "still no news from Sam. Safe bet they haven't gotten to their spot yet. I don't want to take the car; if we find shit and it's about to hit fan, you can just zap us back here and we'll regroup. Right?"

“I can take us there and bring us back with no problem, if you think it’s safer that way,” Castiel said, tilting his head as Dean ushered him into the room. He didn’t know what had set Dean off and wasn’t sure if he wanted to snoop around in his head and find out. 

“Do you want to go now?” he asked, still standing more or less where Dean had pushed him and watching him with a distant sort of amusement. The little inn seemed to tingle over his nerves and sent a strange feeling to his other senses; there was some sort of power here, old but still active. If they didn’t have more pressing needs he would have insisted they wait until he had time to investigate it. 

He would make a point to do so while Dean slept. It wasn’t something that felt dangerous, more something that seemed to be protecting the small little group of houses and shops that might have been a village of about twenty. Sort of like a mother hen brooding over a nest.

"Yeah, now seems best," Dean answered, raking a hand over his face quickly. If he stayed much longer here--the stupid room really was cozy, if a little on the oldies side--he knew he was either going to hit the buffet, the bar, the shower or all three, in no particular order. At least two of those things could really delay this little show, and while Sam riled at him constantly about his habit of touring the bars, at least hunting with his brother didn't offer the annoying temptation of wanting to drag Cas to the nearest dirty dive and get the angel roaringly drunk, if that was even possible.

His mind supplied him with the most ridiculous mental image of Cas, looking every bit like a disgruntled, stuffy businessman, leaning against a bar and drunkenly telling of his theological woes to an impassive barkeep and Dean's sour mood lifted a little. Just a bit, because he was still hungry and a little pissed about the kid's earlier raised eyebrow. He still smirked at Castiel, though he knew it would likely confuse the angel, before getting up.

Dean walked over to Castiel's side, gently plucked the duffel back from the angel's fingers and dropped it on the bed, then made his way back to the car. He opened the trunk after making sure no one was around and inspected the array of weapons they had at their disposal. Frustratingly few of those would even make a dent on a big bad demonic presence and he only had one thing he knew would have any effect on any sort of angel, if the damned magical writing feather had actually been hinting at something true. They wouldn't have time to finagle a circle of oil if it all exploded in their faces so Dean settled for grabbing the two unfamiliar angel's blades, uncertain if Cas still had his, or carried it around or simply willed it into existence from Jedi-land.

Closing the trunk and vaguely trying to hide the ungainly blades as he walked back to the room, he quirked an eyebrow at Castiel, still standing pretty much as he'd been when he'd entered, before closing the door behind him and locking it. "Still got one of these?" he asked as he offered Cas one of the blades with a faint grin, tucking the other under his belt.

Castiel looked down at the angel blade in Dean’s hand and shook out his sleeve, causing his own blade to drop into his hand. “An angel’s blade is a physical manifestation of his grace, we don’t lose them,” he said simply before twitching his fingers and sending the blade away. “You hold onto them both.” 

He had the strangest urge to snatch both of the angel blades from Dean, and dispose of them. On some level it was like Dean was carrying about parts of his dead siblings’ bodies. He didn’t though; he simply reached out and gripped Dean’s shoulder. It only took the briefest flexing of his power to send them to the abandoned mine.

The buildings around the mine were derelict and nearly falling down, the roads simple dirt, few signs of humanity’s touch recently. Castiel looked around and frowned; he sensed something here. Stepping away from Dean he took several steps towards the black gaping cavern that was the mine’s glory hole. He tilted his head and stared into to the inky depths, frowning. Something was down there he could sense it. 

Instinct told him that he should have come alone. He frowned and looked back at Dean before turning back towards the mine. There were whisperings of power here and, familiar and half forgotten, a name that danced on the tip of his tongue. Whatever it was made him want to lash out with power until the thing that lurked in the shadows showed itself. 

“Good enough for me, then,” Dean muttered back, a bit dismayed to find a slight frown marring Castiel’s forehead. He still tucked the other blade as snugly as it could get next to the first one, shrugging a bit to adjust to the weight against his hip. He miraculously managed not to flinch when Castiel’s hand dropped on his shoulder, very nearly over the mark he knew was there under his shirt, but didn’t have much time to steel himself before his surroundings shifted in a rush of air and that familiar rustling thump of wing beats.

Cas the funny ex-accountant was one thing, but as he shuffled and blinked after him when they reached the mine, he remembered that Castiel the ‘warrior’ was a hell of a lot more impressive than his memories kept insisting. “This, man…” Dean shivered, trying to shake the weird, unsettling and vaguely panicky feeling that he’d just had a mini-transatlantic flight in fast forward. “I swear I’ll never get used to this.” He glanced up, frowned when he saw the sun slowly disappear behind a nearby hill and reached down to slide a small penlight from his pocket.

“Yeah, Dean. Nice prep work. This’ll light the way perfect,” he snarked at himself, throwing in one of Sam’s favourite bitchy expressions for good measure, and followed grimly after Castiel. “Spidey-sense tingling, I take it?” he asked without much hope for a straight answer, shining the sad little beam of light into the darkness, where it did nothing so much as turn the shadows darker.

One hand surreptitiously crept towards the blades at his side though, because while he didn’t know what had Cas on edge, he could recognize a worried scowl when he saw it, even on Castiel’s sometimes hard to read face. 

“Talk to me, Cas. What’ve we got?” he finally asked, swinging the beam of light around. There was a large, serious-looking building standing a couple hundred feet from the mine’s shaft, looking about as eerie and foreboding as it was possible to get in the diminishing light. But their surroundings seemed mostly empty, though that did nothing to dismiss the tension he could feel radiating off Castiel in waves.

“Oh, you have me,” a falsetto voice rang out behind them, causing Castiel to spin around and tug Dean sharply behind him. The speaker was slender, delicately featured with a shoulder length mass of dark brown and wavy hair. The only way to tell that it was a male that was speaking was the fact that his navy blue satin shirt was opened to the navel and tucked in nearly skin tight leather pants. It was not impossible to believe that he was also wearing an unmanly amount of makeup.

Castiel frowned and with a shake of his arm his angel blade fell into his hand. He brought the blade to bear before him and searched his memory for a name. He couldn’t place it, but most of the host had made a point to forget the names of their fallen brothers and Castiel had never had many dealings with them to begin with.

“It’s Belial, Castiel. My name is Belial,” the fallen angel said with a toothy smile. “Though you are… far less magnificent than I remember, Castiel.” His eyes strayed to Dean and he giggled to himself. “But that makes sense since dearest Michael forced you to drag Dean Winchester out of hell. Tell me, Deanie, do you know exactly what raising a soul from hell entails for the angel in question? I don’t think he told you, did he? Maybe you should ask him about the Archangel he used to be, Deanie.” He flipped his long hair over his shoulder and kept giggling to himself.

Castiel flinched and scowled at Belial. “Belial,” he said lowly, fighting the urge to lunge forward and smite the fool where he stood. “You should not speak of things you know nothing about.”

“The hell…” Dean muttered as he also spun around. He’d nearly gotten a grip on one of the blades but Cas actually -pulled- him back and he stumbled backwards a few steps, blinking in bemused shock as Castiel pulled his own blade and stepped in front of him. The whole protect-the-monkey routine wouldn’t have stung as much if the newcomer hadn’t been just so… infuriatingly harmless-looking.

It was Guns n’ Roses all over again, only with way too much makeup and a voice that had nothing at all to do with Axl’s awesome gritty drawl and totally made Dean’s teeth gnash together. That, and he was starting to get pissed so many angels were turning up looking, well, actually androgynous. As though somebody upstairs was mocking him by purposefully making his life difficult.

He followed the exchange between the two angels with his eyes and visibly cringed when he heard his name turned into an exaggerated, drawn-out two-syllable horror. But if he was tense then Cas was a damned bar of steel, and Dean frowned in turn when the topic veered, quite inexplicably, to his little one-way ticket out of hell. And it made not a damned lick of sense, either; Cas hadn’t been an Archangel when they’d met. Just—and that was a weird way to put it—an angel, and then fallen and almost human, and dead too many times to count and back again, but still, just an angel.

“I think I’d rather know what a flightless bird is doing down here, actually, Belli-beans,” he shot back, aware that he was probably digging his own grave a bit but totally unable to let go of the metaphorical shovel. Besides, the nickname thing had stung. “We come down here looking for why all these demons keep not showing up, and trust me that’s already more disturbing than it should be without you turning up.” And raising more damned questions about his salvation. Again.

“The hell is up with all you people knowing about me, anyway? If I’m all that’s playing on angel-radio it’s no damned wonder you all keep coming back down here,” he added, stepping forward warily but still keeping close at Castiel’s side, just in case this Belial—and, shit, if he squinted, he could swear he saw eyeshadow—really did have enough juice to send him stumbling to the ground.

Belial let out an excited twitter of laughter. “We-ell, Deanie,” he chirped excitedly. “It’s been ordered that all demons are either with us or dead. So I’m recruiting and it just so happens the nest here wasn’t really the joining type. So I killed them all, just like I was told to.” 

“And who gave that order, Belial?” Castiel asked, hoping Belial was stupid enough to tell. He could tell there were going to be questions about this when they got out of here but was glad Dean had held off his demands until later. 

Belial giggled again. “That would be telling wouldn’t it? Now I think I’ll leave you two alone to discuss your relationship problems.” He winked at them and in a blink he was gone with none of the normal sound of an angel leaving. 

Castiel frowned and lowered his sword slowly. “He’s gone,” he said at length as he turned to look at Dean, still frowning. “This is bad, Dean,” he added, reaching out to grip Dean’s shoulder to take them back to the hotel. “I think perhaps I will require a drink after that.”

Dean stared at the spot where the extravagant little shit had been standing for a few mad seconds, replaying his last words in his mind a few times in dumbfounded confusion. So yes, they had a whole slew of angels, with who knew what at the helm, recruiting demons and killing those who refused to join up. And that -was- bad, he thought as he glanced briefly down at Castiel’s hand on his shoulder.

But, really, it seemed everyone and everything was just out to piss him off today; demons left and right not appearing, somebody rounding up the freaks from hell, some new angel civil war drama, that acne-faced kid at the lobby and now this? Relationship problems. He chalked it up to too much eyeshadow and bad fashion sense and left it at that, because if he didn’t he was going to start wondering if he wasn’t going -visibly- chick-flick around people and that was just a horrifying thought.

Besides, he had bigger problems on his mind. Namely, a totally new brand of heavenly bullshit going around and what Castiel had actually done, to drag him out of hell. He knew he’d gotten some answers earlier, with the wings, but somehow he couldn’t help but feel now that he’d gotten an abridged version. He glanced around the abandoned mine, sighed and nodded. “Yeah, I’d gotten that much, Cas. It’s bad. We’ll head back and I’ll call Sam and Bobby and tell ‘em to watch their backs out there.”

He tried not to focus on the weird, insistent heat of Castiel’s hand against his shoulder and stuffed his small flashlight back into his pocket. “And, hell, I could sure go for a freaking drink too, at this point. Couple drinks, even. Couple dozen.” He hesitated, narrowed his eyes a bit at Castiel’s familiar stern face, all worried forehead, scrunched-up blue eyes and five o’ clock shadow and snorted. “Never change, man. Or at least, never change that way,” he said, pointing a thumb vaguely in the direction Belial had been standing.

Castiel tilted his head questioningly as he took them back to the hotel room. “You should call Sam and Bobby before either of us drinks anything,” he said, letting go of Dean’s shoulder and putting his sword away. “While you do that I will go speak with my brothers in heaven and see what news they have.”

“And I will endeavour not to change if that pleases you, Dean,” he said with a slight nod. “I will be back shortly.” And with that he left with a rush of air to speak to the other angels. He felt strangely out of place in heaven after his prolonged time in earth, but discussing what he’d learned with his brothers in heaven helped. The general outrage at it was fulfilling.

He was gone maybe ten minutes before he returned. He wondered if Dean wanted to do his normal demanding answers game before or after he started drinking.

“Right, sure. Head on up top, see what’s going on. Bobby’ll want to know about this,” Dean replied, frowning as Castiel disappeared. He’d been -staring- right at the angel and he’d still missed any sort of movement. And what the hell had that last bit been about? Cas’ roundabout way of speaking was, while sometimes entertaining, bordering on cryptic when he wanted to be.

“If it pleases me, the hell is that?” he hissed under his breath, shaking his head and digging his phone out of his pocket. He speed-dialled Sam and was relieved to hear his brother’s voice nearly drowned out by the sound of a motor. 

“Got something?” his brother answered by way of greeting.

Dean clumsily removed both blades from his belt one-handed, dropped them on the bed and adjusted his jeans. “Sammy. Still on the road?” He reached over after wrestling the phone onto his shoulder and stuffed both angel’s blades into the duffel bag as he spoke.

“Yeah, why? We’re almost there.”

“Ran into one of Cas’ ex-angel friends. Belial. Some fallen 70’s glam rock angel who paints his nails. Apparently somebody’s been rounding up demons and trying to get ‘em to turn sides. We don’t know who yet, but… This smells big, Sam. Whatever you do, be careful.” He thought a bit, brow furrowing as he wondered what would’ve happened if Belial had turned nasty and Castiel hadn’t been there. “In fact, might be best if you waited for us. Cas seems… really shaken up about this.” Another pause. “He asked for a drink.”

“Whoa,” Sam answered.

Dean zipped up the duffel bag and nodded, pushing it further along the bed, still a bit dismayed about this himself. “Yeah. You got the angel’s name down? Just in case you can dig up something about any of this.”

“Belial, gotcha. You… be careful too, Dean.”

“Well, I got…” Dean was interrupted by a soft rustling and half-turned, catching sight of Castiel near the door. “Heavenly assistance. Catch you later, Sammy,” he finished as he flipped his phone closed. 

“So…” He clapped his hands together once, a faint grin forming on his face. And maybe he was planning a bit to get Cas good and drunk, if he even could; the angel seemed to be in an answer-giving mood recently and Dean was damn well going to take advantage of this while he could. “Ready to hit the town? No dens of iniquity, promise.” After a slight pause, he amended this. “Well, maybe just a smidgeon of iniquity.”

Castiel managed a fairly decent snort of disbelief. “Don’t abstain from iniquity on my behalf, Dean,” he said, letting his eyes stray to the duffle on the bed where he knew the angel blades were before looking back at Dean. “Though if you’re going to question me as I know you wish too, perhaps acquiring alcohol and returning here would be better, so we are not overheard.”

He wondered if Dean thought all of his assumptions were due to him reading his mind or just drawing conclusions. He really did try to keep himself out Dean’s head simply because Dean had reacted so adversely to it. He had learned how to read Dean without using his powers fairly quickly simply because Dean was so predictable. 

“Either way, are you driving or shall I ‘zap’ us there?” He strangely hoped that Dean would decide to get some sort of alcohol and bring it back to the hotel room. “I would also suggest you eat first. Alcohol is a type of poison and it is best imbibed on a full stomach.” 

He was about to ask something else when there was a rapid fire knock on their door. Castiel blinked and narrowed his eyes at the door; he hadn’t sensed anyone anything nearing the door. He looked at Dean then back to the door where whatever was outside knocked again.

“Oh, come on now boys,” a cheerful female voice called through the door. “I know you’re in there, I made cookies and everyone gets some, so open up.” 

Castiel cast a sort of helpless look at Dean but reached out and opened the door. Outside was a cheerful older woman with a tightly permed crown of dark gray hair and cheerful hazel eyes. She looked like a grandma, that sort of rounded older woman shape that most grandmothers were. The tray of cheerfully shaped cookies in her hands only solidified that. 

“Now, I know you two haven’t been down to my buffet,” she said, bustling into the room like she owned it –which she probably did as her name tag read ‘Mama Fortuna – Manager/owner’ – and looked Castiel then Dean up and down. “And that is a gosh darn shame, because both of you boys are far too thin,” she said, tutting. “Now I insist you both take two cookies then march right downstairs and get some dinner.”

“I… Questions?—… Dammit, Cas, come on. Stay out of my head,” Dean replied, though he said it so damned often he felt he couldn’t quite muster up the amount of offence the sentence required. It was a mad, mad sentence, and further proof that his life was utterly fucked up that it felt so frickin’ familiar on his tongue. “And I swear, if you’ve been discussing my eating habits with Sam, I’m going to throttle the both of you.” Happily, the knock at the door interrupted any further spiel and Dean sat heavily down on the bed as he watched Castiel flounder a bit before opening the door.

The woman who entered took him by surprise, shoving gracefully past Cas in a way that screamed many things; one of these was owns-the-place, another was possible-meddling-busybody but mostly they were both drowned out by ‘cookies!’.

Because there were cookies—there was also a faintly grand-motherly look that said the woman had seen more meat on skeletons than on both Dean and Cas, which made Dean chuckle under his breath—and they were being nearly waved under his nose.

“That’s right, m’am, we haven’t been to the buffet yet,” Dean said, getting up slowly and staring unblinking at the tray for a few seconds before smiling. “But we’d planned to, of course. Right, Chuckles?” He glanced briefly at Cas, gently took two cookies off the woman’s tray and offered her another brilliant grin before pointing at the tray and sending the angel a pleading look. Even if Cas didn’t eat these, taking as many as possible seemed prudent; they smelled mouth-watering.

“We were going to head out into town, but I guess…” A quick glance back down at the duffel bag confirmed it was well and truly zipped and nothing untoward or weird was happening there that the woman could object to. “… We -could- stop by and grab a bite first. These… look awesome, thank you, m’am,” he added before biting into one of the treats and ushering Cas towards the door. Something halfway between a surprised gasp and a purr escaped him though and he paused, bit the cookie properly in half and peered at the piece that remained in his hand as he chewed.

“Oh, God, melted chocolate inside,” he groaned. And, incongruously and to his own dismay: “Look.” This, he directed at Castiel as he turned the half-eaten cookie towards the angel.

Castiel blinked but took two of the cookies; he’d give them to Dean rather than eat them. He couldn’t quite figure out why this older woman had him so off balance. She wasn’t human that’s all he knew, because no human could sneak up on him like that. 

Mama Fortuna on the other hand smiled hugely at them both. “There we go. You better get second helpings of my famous blueberry pie. It’s won the blue ribbon at the tri-state pie festival for the past ten years in a row. It’s my own secret recipe,” she said cheerfully, bustling after them out of the room. “Now you boys are very welcome, just make sure you eat up.”

Castiel peered down at the melted chocolate innards of the cookie that had been thrust under his nose. “I can see it, Dean,” he said mildly; it was pleasing to see Dean enjoying something so simple even if he didn’t trust whatever was feeding it to him. He could tell that whatever Mama Fortuna was, she wasn’t out to hurt anyone. 

Dean coughed and lowered his hand, briefly, a bit embarrassed to have been caught, by an angel of the Lord, no less, in the moment of bliss that usually followed his food kinks. And he knew he had a thing with sugary stuff; God knew Sammy teased him enough about it. Still, there was half a cookie in his hand and he shrugged, stuffed the rest of it into his mouth and closed the motel room door behind them before starting on the second cookie.

“There’s pie? Blueberry pie?” he repeated through a mouthful of buttery chocolate, a bit dazed. Beer and other liquid delicacies could wait. The cookies had been glorious; there was no telling what sort of awesomeness could be found in that buffet, where pie was concerned. The questions could also wait. Dean had soldiered on with his own doubts and memories concerning his release from hell for months. He was in no hurry to actually find out more. Especially if it ended in more awkward moments, like the one Cas had deemed okay to have in the last motel.

He focused on that thought—and not on the warmth and surprisingly easy closeness of simple comfort, of taking something so obviously willingly given when absolutely nothing seemed expected in return—and turned his attention to Castiel. 

“Food first, then. Drinks after. My treat,” he said, a bit more clearly as he wolfed down the rest of the cookie. Dean managed a short, grateful nod at the woman—and, really, she was overall quite sweet, even if she reminded him strongly of somebody else—and started making his way back towards the front desk. The door to the dining room was open, and though it was late for people to gather in an eatery for supper, it was totally jam-packed, nearly every table booked and occupied.

He shuffled further into the room, looking back once to make sure Cas was following because he could never be certain what the angel would pull when in public, and made his way, slowly and with much weaving around tables, to the one lonely free table in the back before sinking gratefully into the booth. There were, incongruously, already menus on the table and Dean quickly reached for one and buried his nose in it, waiting for Castiel to join him.

For some reason this all felt fiercely like a normal hunt, one where he’d spend most of his time with Sammy. He forgot for a moment who he was with and pointed at the menu. “Dude. Triple-decker burgers on rye. With fries and homemade mayo.”

Castiel trailed after Dean into the dining room, cookies still untouched in his hand. When they found a table he slid into the booth across from Dean and left the cookies on the table, figuring Dean would eat them. He picked up the menu to look it over; he might as well blend in seeing as when he didn’t it distressed Dean in some way.

Mama Fortuna bustled into the dining area after them. She handed off the tray of cookies to one of the employees in the room and made her stately way around the dining room stopping to chat with everyone before ending up and Dean and Castiel’s table. “You two ready to order?” she said cheerfully, grinning at them both.

This time Castiel jumped because he hadn’t sensed her coming again, and the angel frowned up at the woman and tried to place what she was. Mama Fortuna on the other hand beamed at him and patted his shoulder. “Don’t take it heart, deary. I’ve snuck up on things bigger than you, love. Now you two order then we’ll have a chat.”

“You…?” Castiel’s brow furrowed and he tilted his head at her questioningly.

“Know exactly what you are, dear. I’ve seen your kind before, with that big apocalypse fuss a while back.” She flapped her hands cheerfully. “Food first, then chit chat. You boys are way too thin.”

Dean looked up from the menu as the woman—Mama Fortuna, and for a second he almost frowned at the name—approached them again. He saw Castiel tense, and then he did frown before fixing his eyes on the woman, because Cas had been tense since they’d arrived and he had seen the angel startle, a barely-there twitch of his shoulder that Dean was pretty sure had little to do with touch. And it clicked, then, when he saw her patting Cas’ shoulder, that she wasn’t human. Finally he could place her demeanour in his memory; same speech patterns, same obvious desire to blend in, same transparent, overplayed, cheerful and harmless obliviousness.

And same blatant attempt at plying people with food, too.

Though of course, the last time he’d encountered one of these up close and personal he’d ended up strapped to a chair back to back with Sammy, and the idiot washed-out pagan deity had nearly taken a tooth out. Now, with thirty years of hell-holiday behind his belt he probably wouldn’t panic quite as much but still… It wasn’t something he wanted to chance. -And- he and Sammy had almost gotten caught early back then, too, because even then he’d thought first with his stomach and second with his brain.

Peanut brittle then, melted-chocolate cookies now. Dean glared up at the woman.

“You know what, lady,” he said carefully as he ever so slowly stood up. “Suddenly I’m not so hungry anymore.” Dean chanced a long look around himself at the very crowded restaurant, then turned his gaze back towards Mama Fortuna. “We’re leaving. Trust me when I say, you don’t want to make a scene here. So either you move aside and let these people out or all hell breaks loose, right here, right now.”

He glanced down at Castiel, still sitting rather alarmingly calmly in the booth and, because he felt a bit like an idiot to have dragged them both right into the wolf’s den simply because of his stomach, added, “And your cookies weren’t even that good, whoever, whatever you are,” though he was lying furiously through his teeth.

Mama Fortuna snorted. “Boys, if I wanted to eat people I wouldn’t have made this place so popular,” she said, tutting and gripping Dean’s shoulder then pushing back down into the booth and smiling at him indulgently. 

“She’s Fortune, Dean.” Castiel said softly. “The people here consider themselves lucky for finding such a nice place and spread the word. That’s what gives her power, Dean. She doesn’t need to consume victims. We’re safe here, trust me.” He looked between Mama Fortuna and Dean.

“He’s right you know, you are safe here. Just like bugs in a rug, now was it you boys that cleared out that nest down at the mine or something else? They were getting way too interested about my place here,” she said with a sigh. “I am ever so glad that they got dealt with before I had to step in. This is my town here you know, I can’t abide my people getting used like puppets.”

“You’re why it was so quiet here when we arrived,” Castiel said, tilting his head. “I’d indented on investigating when you went to sleep, Dean.” He looked a bit chagrined about not telling Dean he’d sensed something strange.

The dainty, somewhat wrinkled hand that pushed down on Dean’s shoulder was as immovable as steel and he flailed backwards onto the booth, scowling, his forehead creased heavily. “Fortune?” A moment of realization passed as he thought again of the kid at the front desk enthusiastically telling him about the buffet and that name tag on Mama Fortuna’s very sensible blouse and he groaned. “Of course she is. Figures. It’s never just -one- job at a time, these days.”

He frowned at his menu, debated for a while the best course of action and finally shrugged, slapping the menu back down a bit harder than necessary on the table. “Fine. If you think it’s safe,” he grumbled. “But if I start foaming at the mouth or going green after this burger, I’m blaming you, Cas.” Finally he turned his attention back towards the woman—deity, demi-goddess, whatever she was—and pointed a thumb vaguely northwards. 

“That nest… was already empty when we got here,” he said carefully. “You mentioned your… people, lady. What’s going on here? We knew there’d been activity this way but… used as puppets?” All they’d had to go on were a few cryptic words written in invisi-ink by an angel feather; there’d been no indication of actual demonic possession.

“And… I’ll have the triple-decker. With fries and a cold one. And a slice of blueberry pie,” he added, reluctantly pushing his menu aside. For a moment he wished Sam was here; because while Cas was always useful in a fight—angelic nuclear powerhouse strapped to the Impala, the image was still amusing—he wasn’t always the best at uncovering deceptions or tricks. But, because he had nothing else to go on and the last two pagan gods had been a damned bitch to put down, he gave up. “It had better be the best damned blueberry pie in the world, too.”

“She’s protecting this small town,” Castiel said, tilting his head slightly as Mama Fortuna took Dean’s order and bustled off with it. “And the travellers that come to her inn. The people here worship her in the sense that they thank their good fortune for the good things that happen around here, and in turn her presence here causes more fortunate things to happen.”

The angel fiddled with his menu and put it aside. “There’s a saying ‘Fortune favors the bold’, Dean. I know you don’t like or trust what you call freaks, but this one is probably protecting more people than you know. We should leave her be,” he advised and gave Dean an imploring look. He couldn’t explain it but he thought they might need all the luck they could find.

It was a few moments before Mama Fortuna returned with Dean’s order. She set the plates down in front of him. “Here you go hun,” she said, beaming at him. “I brought an extra piece of pie. Now then you say the mine was empty before you got there?” she asked but never lost her smile. “Some of the folks in town disappeared because those nasty things rode them out of here.”

Dean followed Mama Fortuna with narrowed eyes as she disappeared and swiftly turned back towards Cas, huffing out a low, quiet sigh. “Hey, I trust -some- freaks. We’re all freaks,” he answered, then thought a bit. “Sammy’s a freak, I’m certainly a freak and well… No offence, dude, but you’re not exactly run of the mill, either. Besides,” he continued, leaning back in the booth and looking around. “You’re probably right. This doesn’t -feel- bad and we have bigger shit on our plates right now.”

“Figuratively speaking, I mean,” he quickly amended before Cas could argue that his order hadn’t arrived yet. He managed to force his thoughts back to the matter at hand, which was food; this was made considerably easier by the fact that nearly every table around them was piled with plates, everything looked damned near mouth-watering, and he was still starving. He knew Sam would call if anything happened, Cas could mojo them both out to Idaho in a blink and he still needed to wheedle information out of the angel.

This couldn’t happen if he veered off to gank a demi-god who was apparently just quietly running a diner. Still, he sighed again, then leaned over the table a bit and rested both elbows onto it before pointing at Castiel. “You said you ‘sensed’ something here, Cas? This, right here… This is a team, right? Speak up, next time; I want in on angel-insight, okay?” he admonished lightly.

“But for now—Oh…” The soft clink of plates setting down on the table interrupted him and Dean stared, then nodded, and grinned, at the massive burger he was presented with. He lifted a corner of bun a bit suspiciously and let out a small, choked sound. Three huge slabs of meat, juicy as hell, plenty of melted cheese and only the tiniest, saddest little hint of lettuce. It had almost been -made- for him and, knowing what he now knew, probably had been. The pie he reverentially avoided his eyes from until it was time.

He started on the fries and homemade mayo, went a bit bug-eyed and quickly dug into the burger. “This is lovely, m’am… Fortune… Fortuna,” he muttered around a mouthful, distracted. “You said…” Half a dozen fries disappeared. “Rode them out? Any chance you’d know where, exactly?”

“Oh, they’re way out of my range to see anymore,” Mama Fortuna said with a sigh and waved her hand in an annoyed gesture. “If I could still get to them I wouldn’t just let them be used as hosts for demons, boys. I just know that normal demons can’t get past me and into people I’m bound to protect easily. Now if you boys need anything else or seconds you just let me know.” She patted Dean’s shoulder and bustled away.

Castiel frowned slightly. “I didn’t wish to alarm you pointlessly, it could have just been the beginnings of a haunting or a powerful good luck spell,” he said softly. “Though I believe that she may have been summoned here now and perhaps bound here, this is near several areas where there were mines. Pagan gods don’t like to move from a place that they’ve made their own unless they’re forced out. If early prospectors summoned her to the area she has simply stayed.”

The angel looked at Fortuna who was busily chatting at a young couple. He looked back at Dean and gave a little shrug. “There were forces like her in the past, all around the world. It’s a pity that they are so rare now,” he said with what might have been sadness.

Dean frowned into his burger, barely acknowledging the brief touch at his shoulder as Mama Fortuna left them to their food. He listened and nodded—and chewed—as Castiel explained about the Fortunes, which Dean understood to be some sort of benevolent forces. Cas’ face took on a sort of wistful look, something Dean had noticed before sometimes when the angel spoke of the world as it had been before, or of things he thought to be unfair.

It was a very clear reminder that Castiel -had- changed; Dean wasn’t certain when, exactly, it had happened, and he wasn’t certain why. Maybe it was just humans rubbing off on him, but he certainly wasn’t quite the same as when they’d first met. And this, Dean felt, was a definite improvement. Even if it was nearly unbearable, for some reason, to watch that mildly saddened frown flit across the angel’s features. 

“Hey,” he said gently as he finished off the rest of his burger. “No sulking.” Dean pushed his plate away and reached for the pie, sliding the second plate of dessert towards Castiel. “We’re not going after her, anyway. And I’m not mad at you. We’re just going to sit here, have some pie,” He chanced a brief look downwards at his plate to confirm that, yes, it looked glorious, “and then I’m going to drive over to the nearest corner store, buy enough booze to drown us both and we can relax and sleep like the dead.”

He paused before adding, “Or I can sleep and you can… do whatever it is you do at night.” And hopefully they would not wake up -cuddling- again. He picked up a clean fork and tapped a few times on the crust of his pie, smiling; Sammy had asked him why once. His poor brother didn’t understand the benefits of anticipation. After a moment he reached over with his free hand, grabbed a second fork and dropped it gently onto Castiel’s plate, nodding at him once.

“Think we got some suped-up demons on our hands? She said no ‘normal’ demons could get past her,” he asked, waiting for Cas to start in on his own dessert before digging in himself. Pie-anticipation was fun, but watching the angel trying new things, most of all watching the very-human reactions that often flashed across his face before he caught himself, was nearly just as good.

Castiel tilted his head and peered quizzically down at the fork in his hand then down at the pie. He was tempted to refuse it and let Dean have both pieces, but clearly Dean wanted him to at least try it. He carefully used the fork to cut off a bite of the pie and maneuvered it to his mouth. He chewed slowly and thoughtfully. The filling was sweet and syrupy with the crust evening it out with savory buttery flavour. 

He swallowed and peered thoughtfully at the pie. He wasn’t sure if he liked it or not. “Perhaps some sort of higher level demons attempting to either flee or fight the fallen angels as they make their way through hell,“ he said before taking another bite of his pie.

He still couldn’t decide if he liked it. He glanced up at Dean and licked his lips. “This is…good,” he said, completely unaware the purple filling was staining his mouth. He hadn’t been lying the pie was good and he was glad that he hadn’t pushed it away. It was strange; Dean had never really steered him wrong. Even in all of his demands for help the man had always seemed to inadvertently help him. 

“The amount of alcohol you’d need to drown us both would probably be the entire liquor store, Dean,” he said with a small frown as he tried futilely to keep the filling that was oozing out of the crust to stay in place. With an annoyed little huff he gave up and took another bite.

Dean watched the first forkful of pie disappear, smiling expectantly as Castiel chewed; watching the angel eat was always just a bit weird. All of a sudden he seemed more human, somewhat more approachable at least, and less like the creature he'd been the previous night, all unblinking, piercing blue eyes and wingspan. Dean wasn't certain he was able to reconcile the two, as though there were two of the little bastard.

And both of them, apparently, were conspiring to turn him queerer than a fairy. Because the second bite of pie left a light smudge of dark, glistening blueberry filling right along the edge of Castiel's bottom lip, even after the angel'd chased it with the tip of his tongue. Dean stared, probably way too intensely and much longer than was normal, the fork in his hand completely forgotten.

Suddenly his own pie seemed a hell of a lot less desirable than that tiny lick of one, and he actually heard himself answer, completely mortified but unable to stop himself. "Yeah, does look good." His eyes were still glued to Cas' lips though, his voice little more than choked rasp, and he hoped to hell the angel was too dense to catch on. Finally, he forced himself to nearly glare at his own pie and rammed his fork into it, pretty much exploding the flaky crust into a mess of crumbs.

"The pie, I mean. Just... The pie looks good. Glad you like it," he rallied hurriedly, scooping up a massive forkful of pie and shoving it into his mouth. It exploded against his tongue in a burst of sweet blueberry and the faintest hint of salt as the crust crumbled between his teeth, and damn Cas for making this pie ever so much less distracting than it ought to have been. It -should- have been the highlight of this mad night, but of course Dean found himself actually looking up from his plate, just in case more lip-licking happened.

Not good. He managed a distracted cough and shoveled more pie into his mouth. "Figure of speech, man. I just mean I intend to get good and drunk. Bonus points if the liquor store has enough to get -you- drunk too, but I'm not holding my breath on that one," he muttered back, gesturing with his fork. 

He wondered briefly how much of Castiel's senses came from the human body the angel was, well, possessing, for lack of a better term, and just what he could feel and smell and touch. But that, Dean decided, was very probably a thought better explored on his own, and far, far away from Cas' mind-trickery, because it could rapidly degenerate into the sort of thing he was pretty sure he didn't want the angel spying in on.

Better to bury his nose in his damned pie and try to pretend he was only twitching in his seat because it was uncomfortable, and not because his jeans were suddenly just a tad too tight. "Tell you what, I'll get all sorts of stuff from the liquor store, and we can try 'em all until you find something you actually like," he added. "Or until I pass out."

Castiel tilted his head at Dean because he had caught him staring but he didn’t understand why. He tilted his head but finished up his pie without comment. It had been good and he could now understand why Dean had such strong feelings about pie. He set his fork on the plate and pushed it away from himself. 

“I doubt it’s possible to get me drunk anymore, Dean,” he said with a slight smile. “Though if you wish to attempt it I see no reason why the attempt can’t be made.” He absently watched Dean as he tucked into his pie. Something was unsettling Dean, he could tell that much just from the way he was eating his pie.

Castiel had the vaguest urge to try more foods, but that could wait until another time. He had some memories of what Jimmy had liked to eat and drink and what he thought might be remembered flavors to go with those vague and borrowed memories. He wasn’t entirely sure though, perhaps indulging Dean’s attempts to teach him more about human foods would aid him with that. 

“I’ll try whatever alcohol you want me too, Dean. I trust your judgment though I doubt anything will have an effect,” he said with a certain amount of dry amusement.

Castiel's words dropped like a sort of leaden weight in Dean's gut; trust could easily be broken, and he was fairly sure his own thoughts would warrant him a definite heavenly-ruler-on-the-knuckles if anyone ever found out about them. There had to be a damned law somewhere in those gospels and psalms against lusting after God’s angels. Still, he forced himself to chuckle around his last bite of pie before also pushing his plate away. Uncharacteristically, there were still a few crumbs on it.

“Hey, worth a shot. I’ll try anything at least once,” he said, getting up and digging into his pocket for his wallet. He took out a few bills for their meal, added a generous tip and gestured Castiel towards the exit. “Come on, before our weirdo Lady Luck bustles back in with candied apples or something. Think I’ve had just about enough excitement for one night.” 

He almost reached for the room keys so Cas could wait for him inside while he went off in search of booze before he remembered there was absolutely no need to do so. “Wait for me back at the room? I won’t be long. Ten minutes, tops, then we can end this night like two frat boys who couldn’t get lucky.” He shuffled backwards out of the room, shot Castiel a little salute and swiftly got the fuck out of dodge. 

Walking to his car and driving to the little gas bar down the road gave him plenty of time to curse his idiot brain—and dick—to his heart’s content. He knew, of course, why this was happening; it was that damned cuddly wakeup, and nothing more. Dean usually managed to separate business, pleasure and friendship. It was, for some reason, a hell of a lot harder to do so when the other party apparently knew you more than you knew yourself. And came all gift-wrapped in a none-too-shabby exterior package, too. 

When he had gone around the liquor store twice and paid for all the booze he could find—a six-pack of dark, imported brew, stronger than their usual beer, one bottle each of red and white wine, two small bottles of both vodka and dark rum and some fruit juice and coke to go with them—he was -still- thinking about that frickin’ bit of blueberry pie on Castiel’s lip. Which made him wonder, as he dumped his purchases angrily in the back of the Impala, exactly how long it’d been since he’d gotten laid.

The answer to that was almost unbearable, because, really, who went all hormonal teenager over some dude after just a few months of abstinence? He managed to drive back to the motel without crashing his baby, got the two heavily-laden bags out of the car and fought with the bags and his keys for a few minutes before simply knocking on the door to their room.

“Little help, Cas?”

Castiel tilted his head as Dean hurried off. Shrugging off Dean’s rapid departure he took himself back to their room with a thought. He set himself on the bed and spent the time that Dean was gone in silent contemplation. He should have been questioning why he simply obeyed Dean’s orders and requests without really thinking about it, but he wasn’t. 

He was contemplating the idea of what if Dean’s mouth tasted like the blueberry pie had, sweet and a little savory? Which was confusing and not exactly an unpleasant thought. Not that he knew what to do with it other think about it and file it away with the other less than angelic thoughts that he’d been having since he fell and returned to heaven.

He was at the door before Dean knocked and called for him. Castiel opened it with a tilt of his head. “It’s a good thing I restored your liver to a healthy state when I pulled you out of hell, Dean,” he said drily once he saw the amount of liquor Dean had brought back. “Though you seem to be attempting to damage it even worse than it was before.”

“The hell was wrong with my liver before, man?” Dean answered as he wriggled between the doorway and Castiel, navigating the narrow space between table and one of the beds to dump both bags onto the foot of the bed. He paused, one hand already deep within one plastic bag and pulling out the six-pack of beer, and frowned, staring back at the angel for a few seconds. “On second thought, never mind, I don’t wanna know.”

He tugged one can of beer free from the others and flung it at Castiel, flipping himself onto the bed with a contented sigh before opening up a can of beer for himself. The technicalities of being raised from hell had never really occurred to him; still, his body had been dead and buried for four months. By all rights, he should’ve come back Night of the Living Dead, not fresh as a daisy, if a bit dusty and parched. It was an uncomfortable thought; it meant that someone had… fiddled with his body, pretty much.

Nodding once at Cas, he tilted his head back and downed a third of his beer before sinking a bit more heavily into the too-soft bed. “Sorry about the drink in advance; this won’t be a tour for the rich and famous. It’s just a cheap corner store, so there wasn’t much by way of vintage down there.” A pause, as Dean nursed his beer, then, ”Hey. So… How did that even work out, really? Did someone pull a magic corpse-preserving act on me when I got pulled down?” he finally asked, uncertain he actually wanted to know the answer.

Discussing this with anyone else would be unthinkable; with Cas, it was painful, near unbearable, but at least the images and memories seemed to be kept at bay. The here and now was real, because there was a freaking angel in the here and now, and that angel had ended all the blood and the fire. It was easier; still not actually easy, but easier.

Castiel caught the beer Dean tossed to him and looked down at the can. “No, when I raised you from perdition I restored your body to the state it was before you died, if a bit healthier,” he said, and after a bit of fiddling figured out the tab and opened the can. “That was the easiest part of the whole exercise in all honesty.”

He peered down at the beer in his hand before taking a careful sip of it. It was better than bottled beer Dean had offered him before. “The human body can live and even function without its soul, Dean. You saw that with Sam and his soulless state. Reviving you was simple, nothing really different from healing,” he said and took another drink of the beer. It was better the second time tasting it.

“I’m surprised you haven’t asked me about this sooner. I don’t mind telling you about it, Dean,” he added honestly, because it was true; he didn’t mind explaining to Dean how he’d brought him back from hell. If he didn’t go into detail about some parts, Dean didn’t need to know about that. He clasped his beer can in hands and watched Dean with interest.

“Yeah, well…” Dean shrugged, knocked back the rest of his beer with a faint grimace and frowned at the empty can before flinging it back into the plastic bag. “It’s not something I like to think about when I put my feet up after a long day, you know?” In fact, most days he had to force himself not to flinch every time he glanced into a mirror and saw his own face reflected there. What he’d become down there had worn his face; sometimes it was almost unbearable to see it staring back at him.

He really wasn’t sure he was drunk enough to face this right now—and the wings, Cas’ reaction earlier to his asking about them, and Belial’s words about it, all of this added up to a conversation he had been partly trying to avoid all day—so he slipped another can free from the six pack and opened it, gesturing with it towards Castiel. “Keep up, man, I’m so ahead of you.” And the wall, so carefully-crafted, so vital, came back up slowly, brick by brick, as he leaned back and forced himself to grin.

It was weak, and Cas probably saw through it, until he pushed harder against those bits of him that didn’t fit and felt himself begin to shift so he wouldn’t spill out from behind that wall. He chuckled. “You couldn’t have made any actual improvements while you were at it? I don’t know…” He shrugged and raised a hand up to his face, pointing at the bridge of his freckled nose. “Less of these. Bigger dick. Tighter abs, that sort of shit.”

And then, because he was so used to Sammy giving him crap about his eating habits, “And if you say I should just eat better for that last one, I’m gonna hurt you.”

“I wasn’t aware that it was a competition,” Castiel answered with a slight frown before staring down at the beer in his hand for a long moment. He finally just followed Dean’s example and downed it all. The rush of liquid made him blink but he pitched it with ease into the waste bin across the room. He held out his hand for another beer.

“I returned you to the form that God intended for you to have, Dean. Any improvements to your looks you desire will have to be done yourself. Reversing the damage your lifestyle had done to your body over the years was nearly over stepping myself,” Castiel said as he accepted a second beer from Dean. 

He could sense some sort of worry lurking around in Dean’s thoughts but didn’t pry. He had the feeling he’d find out what bothering Dean at some point tonight. “I wouldn’t dream of advising you to change your eating habits, Dean. Food comforts you and there is little enough of that around for you,” the angel said with a slight shrug.

“Nice throw,” Dean muttered as he caught sight of the easy, sailing arc of the empty beer can straight into the wastebasket on the other side of the freaking room. Angels, what the hell. He wondered, as he was often wont to do whenever he spent time with Cas, just exactly what he could do; there seemed no limit to the amount of weird shit the angel could pull, and he still had no idea exactly what angels were, aside from the obvious biblical explanations.

And it was likely to remain that way, too, considering either hearing or seeing an actual angel would most likely have terminal effects on Dean’s health. He reached up and stretched to drop another beer can a bit more gently into Castiel’s hand, wondering if he would succeed in getting the angel at least a bit buzzed. It would probably be pointless, but at least he wouldn’t flail and stagger himself to sleep alone. Sammy had never really allowed himself to let loose, especially on the road like this.

Which was a pity, really, because, these days, it was one of the few comforts Dean had left, and the best way he’d found of dealing with all the shit he didn’t want to remember. And food, too, as Cas was so adept at pointing out. “Yeah, well. It’s the small things in life that make it worth the fucking aggravation, I guess,” he answered, a bit dismayed at how -honest- he was being.

He busied himself with getting silently drunk for a while—not sulking, not even a little bit, but beer suddenly held all his attention, and who was he to disagree with that?—, and only sort of realized he had finished the rest of the six-pack on his own when he fished for a new can and only found empties. 

“Time for… switching things up, I guess. C’mere,” he gestured at Cas, blinking a bit hazily at the angel, and just a bit peeved that there was so much distance and awkward silence between them. Another careful ruffling through the bag produced a rather cheap-looking bottle of red wine. He frowned, stuffed it back into the plastic bag and reached into the other one, producing the bottle of rum, two plastic glasses and a plastic bottle of by now lukewarm coke. 

“This is better, you’ll see. Sweet,” he said as he poured two healthy measures of rum in each glass, balanced precariously on the bed between his thighs, and topped both glasses up with cola. “Here you go. Careful it’s… bubbly. And probably a bit strong,” he added, handing Castiel a glass and sipping from his own. And oh, that took him back alright, raging parties and late-night bar tours, picking up girls left and right and jotting down numbers until he was too drunk to do much more than scrawl unintelligible chicken scratching on dirty napkins.

Castiel watched Dean finish off the beer with distant interest as he sipped his own second beer. He pitched that empty into the waste bin as well before standing and moving to sit next to Dean. He took the plastic cup from Dean. He had found he liked sweet things so he took a drink. It was sweet and fuzzy and not as foul as the beer had been.

“This is better,” the angel agreed, taking another drink. The liquor settled in his stomach and burned in a not unpleasant way. His brothers would probably be having fits over him drinking; well, Balthazar would probably make some comment about this stick that was supposedly up his ass having been removed. Though if Azrael’s addiction to candy was ignored and Balthazar’s hedonistic attitudes were politely frowned upon, his allowing Dean to try and get him drunk was fine.

He spared a thought to check in with them in heaven and strangely couldn’t sense Azrael among them. He could sense the archangel but he wasn’t where he should have been. That was odd, and concerned him. He needed to keep a closer eye on Azrael but leaving Dean to deal with this hunt and to drink alone was unfair. 

Dean was his charge and he was going to help him. Perhaps Castiel’s loyalty to the Winchesters wasn’t the most intelligent choice he’d ever made; if he didn’t have them Azrael would have never been able to just shove him out of heaven and take over running his army. That wasn’t something a good leader let happen so willingly. He took another drink and wondered if trying to get drunk would help him not have to think about it.

“Glad we’re agreed,” Dean said, sipping at his rum and coke happily. He was slowly starting to build up a nice buzz, one that dimmed the hard edges of his memories and made him feel just that slightest bit more human, more normal. “Personally, I can’t deal with too much of it, because then I -need- to move. Freakin’ coke, it’s more potent than coffee, I’d swear it.”

He managed a weak, haphazard and half-assed knock of his plastic glass against Castiel’s, then relaxed further against the bed, leaning back until he was resting on his elbows, legs dangling over the edge of the bed. And if he were even the slightest bit concerned about how this could look, well… This didn’t count, because clearly things could be rewritten on account of -angel of the damned Lord- and he was exhausted. He couldn’t have sat up straight if his life had depended on it.

“I take it there’s no booze upstairs? No booze, no sleazy bars, no easy hookups with girls? I don’t know how you can call it heaven, really. Sure as hell doesn’t sound all that heavenly to me,” he said, voice slurring just the slightest bit. “And I’ve been up there. I followed the yellow brick road, remember? Didn’t find nothing to write home about.”

This, he thought, this was better; at the very least it was -real- and it was alive and true, not an illusion, not a manipulated memory that could repeat itself forever, but real, honest and raw. Probably wrong and very possibly sinful. But he’d take that over the wool over his eyes that was an eternity of lies any day. “What… makes you stay down here, when you could be up there? You said… I mean, I heard the song. I think you’re the only angel I’ve met who actually seems to like it down here,” he added, gulping down another swallow of rum-n’-coke and narrowing his green eyes up at Cas.

And he did -not- stretch back that slightest bit further, did not let his eyes linger on Castiel’s throat as he sipped at his own cup and most definitely did not let his voice drop to the throaty purr he usually turned on unsuspecting women who wore low-cut shirts and worked behind a counter at the nearest bar. Because that would be flirting, and he was pretty sure he wasn’t quite that drunk. Or maybe it was the fatigue showing through, because Dean found his eyes drawn to Castiel’s lips, briefly, then his shoulders, where he could almost imagine something unearthly and feathery happening. Almost.

“You never reached your intended heaven, Dean,” Castiel said as he sipped his rum and coke. “I’m sure when you finally reach it, it will be everything you expected.” Castiel wondered just what Dean’s heaven would be like. It would probably be a bar filled with all the loose women Dean had bedded over the years. Or perhaps an eternal road trip in the impala. 

“I think you’ve become too used to coming back from the dead, you and your brother,” he said with a slight smile. “I suppose I am to thank for some of that.” He took another sip of his drink and glanced down at Dean. “Heaven is chaotic right now so many of my brothers and sisters are fighting… It’s more pleasant to be down here than up there. Most of the time I am helpless to stop the fighting, the rest of time I’m in the middle of it.”

The angel fiddled with his cup then emptied it. He had noticed that Dean’s voice had lowered to something lower than normal and tilted his head. He liked Dean’s voice; it was soothing and perhaps the easiest way to tell what the man was thinking without reading his mind. He’d wondered in the past what the host would sound like if Dean was one of the voices in it. It would be more pleasant, he decided.

“Here on earth I can make significant impact on things,” he murmured, reaching for the bottle of rum and making himself another drink. “I feel like I have some sense of direction down here.”

“Huh… Well, you’d be the only one in the ‘significant impact’ club here, Cas. Most days, if I can manage to survive without angering either heaven or hell, I consider it a massive fucking success,” he muttered back, brow furrowing as he also emptied his cup. He quirked an eyebrow as Castiel reached for the rum himself, then laughed, a thin, shaky thing that sounded little like his usual carefree guffaw. 

“Didn’t think I’d live to see the day when you’d pour yourself another. Fill me up? No coke. Just rum. I want to sleep like the dead, not run circles ‘round the bed trying to burn the caffeine,” he said, gesturing with his empty cup at the angel. And of course once he started thinking about the lovely, high-wire buzz of too much rum and coke he started thinking of ways to burn through the sugar rush. The fact that Cas was sitting, all good posture and stiff in that faintly heartwarming and familiar way of his, on the edge of the bed where Dean was reclining made that thought ever so much better.

He saw—felt, imagined—their previous wakeup, remembered reaching up towards warmth to find soft, fresh skin, smelling faintly of that sharp tang you got after thundershowers in the summer. And behind that, something hard and unyielding, the strength behind the angel’s wiry, deceptively slight frame nearly that of a freight train, immovable unless he willed it so. 

And fuck everything if that wasn’t the hottest thought he’d entertained in months; the idea of simply reaching up and tugging Castiel closer just to see how much he could get away with, how much would be tolerated and allowed before the shit hit the fan. He frowned, shook his head with a frustrated sigh and cursed his overactive imagination. “If you… hadn’t… It was an order, right, venturing downstairs to find me in hell?” he blurted, face scrunched up in a small frown, appalled that he’d brought the damned subject up again.

But of course, once he’d started running his mouth, and with drink making everything fuzzy and happy, he couldn’t stop. “Beli… Beliar? Bel… Bellybeans, he said… He said to ask you about what you’d been before. The hell was that about, man?”

Castiel poured more rum into Dean’s glass and listened to him try and form the question. “It was an order yes… Angels don’t venture into hell alone or without heaven’s approval, it would be suicide for us to do so,” he said quietly, turning to look at Dean. “There were twenty of us when we first entered heaven….”

He probably shouldn’t have been so willing to tell Dean what had happened in hell, but the alcohol made everything feel so fluid and simple. “It was a month after you’d been dragged into hell that we set out, and it took us three months to find you. Took me three months to find you that is, most of my brothers that entered hell with me… perished. I’d never seen an angel die so close at hand before that.”

He took another drink of his rum and coke. “Uriel was with that group; he was injured and fled shortly before I found you.” He peered into his glass. “It takes an archangel to free a soul from hell.” He looked ashamed at that, scratched the inside of his wrist and licked his lips. “Because damned souls… do not go back into their mortal bodies easily, they struggle and often cause considerable discomfort to themselves.”

He remembered holding Dean’s soul in his hands. How it’d felt raw and in agony even after it’d been freed of hell. The terrible silent screams it’d made demanding he let it go back to its work, that it didn’t want to go back to the rack, that it was a good little soldier and hadn’t run away. That had been the first time Castiel could ever remember feeling pity or sorrow, the first time he remembered feeling anything. He had pitied Dean then because he never should have been allowed to go to hell, no one with a soul that bright and glorious should have gone to hell.

Dean frowned, staring with no small amount of dread at the plastic cup in his hand as Castiel refilled it. To know that heaven had sent an entire fucking angelic platoon down to retrieve him was… disturbing. To actually hear Cas tell him, to hear the words fall into place like so many slabs of heavenly destiny felt like lead weights dropping into Dean’s gut. He’d always been uncomfortable with the idea that he was different. This only solidified that, turned the feeling of awkward, helpless humanity into something he wasn’t sure how to deal with.

“I… never realized. I still don’t know -why-, Cas. What made me special, that they’d send so many of you downstairs? I was just one soul, and a fucking piss poor one, too,” he hissed, and it came out a little more vehemently than he’d probably meant. He raised his cup to his lips, sighed, took a single sip and froze, staring up at Castiel as if he’d actually spurted his damned wings right then and there.

Dean’s voice was small, quieter than he ever remembered it being before, when he finally spoke. “I remember that. I remember not wanting to leave. I remember… Cas, you said… archangel. You’re not… an archangel now, are you?”

And if he’d felt like a champion idiot before, now he really felt like a massive, unworthy asshole. Because if Castiel—serious, righteous, pure Castiel, with all his little angelic faults and quirks and his damned idiotic sense of right and wrong—had somehow taken the brunt of the fall for getting him out of there, well… That would just be the goddamned cherry on the sundae of theological blunders that had been Dean’s life so far.

Bad enough that Cas had gotten fucking -singed- down there, but to know that he’d somehow been diminished, to know that Dean had probably started the entire fall from grace, that Castiel would probably never have -doubted- if not for him… That stung. More than it had any right to. Because Cas had -always been there-, even when he hadn’t been. Dean didn’t understand it, and couldn’t pretend to. But he could make amends, and he would sure as hell try to do so.

“What… happened?” he finally added, staring unblinking at Castiel’s profile from where he was lounging back on the now rumpled bed.

“It had to be you Dean, because there were no other righteous souls in hell. Even broken your soul was still righteous, is still righteous, Dean.” He looked over at Dean again then dropped his gaze. “Even in all the murk of hell I could still see it, bright like a beacon in the distance. “ The angel looked at his hands for a moment then took another drink.

Castiel cleared his throat and took a long drink of his drink before speaking again. “No, I am not any sort of archangel anymore,” he said softly. “Not because of hell, but because the only way to make a damned soul stay in its revived body is to use a piece of angelic grace… to, for lack of a better word, glue it in place.”

“Don’t feel guilty, Dean. I volunteered to go, to lead my brothers into hell after you.” He had to tell Dean the truth about that, because Dean deserved to know. “I should and do feel guilty… I delayed for a month picking those who would go with me. If I had been faster perhaps… It’s no matter now because the past is not alterable.”

“Jesus, Cas. Just… Jesus. You should’ve said something before,” Dean answered, his voice equally as quiet as Castiel’s, turning his gaze downwards to practically glare at his still half-full plastic cup of rum. This, then, was what it had cost Castiel to drag him out of there; not only the purity of his wings—and clearly that made the angel uncomfortable, in some way, judging by the reticence he’d shown in Bobby’s cabin—but also part of his rank, his power and position upstairs.

Dean had no idea if he ever would have sacrificed so much for a complete stranger—but he had, in a way, though spending his life on the road to hunt creatures was a damned sight different than this—and suddenly he thought he could understand -why- Castiel stuck around so much. 

“It must… you know… Hanging around us, it must suck. If there’s anyone down here that could remind you of—“ And then he stopped, a puzzled, thoughtful look on his face. Yes, regret and guilt, but he couldn’t do anything about that except what he was already doing; there was war all around them, would probably always be, but at least right here, right now, he could offer something he was reasonably certain Castiel couldn’t get anywhere else. And that was shutting the hell up and doing what he did best, which was trying very hard not to over-think things, flipping life a great, big, freakin’ finger and having fun.

Suddenly he very much wanted Castiel to have fun. And so did he, because delving too deeply down that road of memories would inevitably lead somewhere where he knew he would break, and he couldn’t break, not tonight, not tomorrow, not until all this was over. “You know what? I do feel guilty. Guilty as sin. We… are two really fucked up poor bastards, you know that? But it’s okay. I promised you drinks and seeing the damned sun rise and that’s exactly what we’re going to do,” he finally said, and now his voice was firm as he reached up, grabbed a hold of Castiel’s sleeve and tugged.

“Let’s just… forget I said anything, okay? Just… Just this, for a while.” He gestured up with his cup again, managed a sad little bottoms-up salute and swiftly drained the rest of the rum. “So, sweet things, yeah? Hope you don’t mind if I fill your pockets with chocolate bars from now on.”

“I enjoy ‘hanging around’ you Dean. I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t,” Castiel said with a frown as he turned to look at Dean. “You know seeing your soul fighting so hard not to have to face the terrors of hell again made me experience emotion for the first time, Dean? It… it terrified me to know something as finite as a human could invoke something I’d been told was never meant for me.”

“I expected you to be angry about this,” he said after finishing his drink. He seemed surprised to find he’d emptied the glass. He looked over at Dean as he tugged on his sleeve and nodded. “Alright, if you wish we can drop the subject until another time,” he finally relented, picking up the bottle and pouring them both more rum which finished off the bottle.

“I will admit I do enjoy sweet things… which was unexpected.” He tilted his head and took a sip of the rum straight. It was stronger and burned a bit more than he expected but it was still good. “I don’t know what chocolate tastes like, Dean,” he pointed out with a slight grin. 

After they finished the rum, they moved on to the vodka which was okay when mixed with orange juice but terrible on its own. At some point Castiel found himself reclining back on the bed with Dean close enough for their shoulders to be touching. Castiel found the closeness strangely comforting and hoped he wouldn’t have to move away any time soon.

“We’ll have to get you some chocolate eventually, then. Cake or something,” Dean muttered, accepting more rum a bit dazedly. The idea of cake was a nice one; really, the idea of watching Cas eat just about anything was a nice one. Hazily, he wondered if he couldn’t, at some point, manage to get the angel to eat something like strawberries. Something that didn’t require a fork. Something that could be eaten with fingers, or sucked on. Because that, right there, was the hottest thing he could imagine at the moment.

Of course, that’s when he knew he was starting to get a bit drunk. The next hour went by in a sort of blurry daze, and Dean regained some of his senses about halfway through a dirty sorry, a bit horrified at the words coming out of his mouth. “And then, right, she shimmies out of the room and comes back in, and I swear to God, there were twins with her.” He paused, tilted his head and stared, blinking dully at Castiel, who was also leaning back and -very- close. 

“I should… probably just shut up. S’not even all that good a story, really.” He was definitely very, very far gone. The world kept swimming pleasantly in and out of focus, as though he was sometimes seeing through very thick glass. Chuckling, he raised a hand up to his face, dismayed to find that yes, there was that very distinct feeling of numbness. Then he seemed to remember who he was with and slowly, torturously—and he almost fell back on the bed when he shifted and near lost his balance, though he’d never admit it—turned onto his side to shoot Castiel a bright grin.

“So, booze. Good, right?” Dean asked, blearily trying to focus on Cas’ face. “I’ve always… always wondered. Why the beard?” He reached out and slowly dragged the backs of three fingers along Castiel’s cheek and jaw, amused by the distinct scratch of stubble. Always just that slightest bit rumpled; he had no idea why. Even now, the angel’s hair was in complete disarray, his tie just crooked enough to be noticeable, his coat rumpled and hanging loosely off his frame. 

“The… accountant look, I get, but this? Man, what I wouldn’t give to be able to just magic away the ten minutes of shaving every morning. Monumen… Monu… Freakin’ waste of time,” he muttered, dimly aware that, yes, his traitor hand had slowly migrated downward along Castiel’s neck and was tugging pointedly at the crooked tie.

Castiel blinked as Dean reached out and touched his face. In all honesty he’d never thought about his vessel’s looks too much. It was, he supposed, attractive to certain people, but he’d never really bothered to think about or care how it looked. “I… I’ve never really thought about it. My vessel is as it was when I first inhabited it,” he said, tilting his head to the side.

He rolled slightly to face Dean better and reached up to touch his face lightly with his finger tips. “You also do not shave, Dean,” he pointed out before letting his hand drop to the bed. He supposed that maybe he should have paid attention to his vessel’s looks more. After all Dean had made a point to fix his clothing when they’d gone looking for Raphael together. 

He regarded Dean curiously as the man tugged at his tie and found himself wondering again if Dean’s mouth would taste like the blueberry pie they’d eaten earlier. It was still a completely foreign thought to the angel who had no idea what to do about it. He knew he liked that Dean was touching him. It was far more pleasant than it should have been. But he trusted Dean enough to let him sleep wrapped in his wings so touching was not that big a step.

“You telling me you never bothered to change clothes or sha—“ Dean’s voice staggered to a stop at the sudden, unexpected brush of fingertips—Cas’ fingers, he was going mad, and probably straight back to hell in the very near future—against the side of his face. As the angel turned, he rolled massively closer, and Dean found himself caught, again, in that bright, strange and utterly annihilating blue gaze. Stripped to the core, as though Castiel could see things even he wasn’t aware of.

It was debilitating, completely disarming and it robbed him of his senses, this close up and from this end of very, very drunk. “Dude, personal space,” he breathed, out of habit more than anything else, because his hand was still tangled in Castiel’s tie, then sliding lower until he could more or less fist it in the thin material of that damned white shirt, which had no business being this crisp when it looked so freakin’ rumpled all the time. 

And something did a glorious little flip in Dean’s stomach when he caught Castiel’s eyes flicking down, once, something barely there but which still registered to Dean’s furiously storming brain. The angel had just snuck a glance at his lips and dammit all to hell, but he was -done-, and if he got the business end of divine retribution for it, then he’d just have to fucking deal. He tugged, hard, against the shirt in his hand and leaned in, stopping just shy of actually crushing his lips against Castiel’s, nearly resting his forehead against the angel’s.

He’d probably regret it in the morning—hell, he’d probably regret it in thirty seconds, if he got fried—but he couldn’t not reach for this; it was warm, it looked about as available as it could get and Dean had never seen anyone look so freaking -ripe- in his entire life and if he didn’t do something now he was fairly certain he was going to explode.

So he drew in a shuddering breath and managed to find his voice through the groan that first escaped him when he parted his lips. “Cas, Jesus hell… Is there… going to be smiting if I kiss you?” His hand, which had been loosely fisted in Castiel’s shirt still, was now snaking upwards, almost without consent from his brain, fingers brushing curiously again over the strangely human skin of the angel’s throat.

“I have never had to… I can keep everything clean with my grace,” Castiel murmured, staring into Dean’s eyes. People said eyes were the windows to the soul, but Castiel had seen Dean’s soul and none of its glory shone through his eyes. They were wonderful to behold on their own though, jewel bright and keen as they were.

Castiel blinked and was ready to shuffle back but Dean pressed closer. “Kiss me?” he asked, licking his lips. “I think I would like it if you did that,” he murmured, resting his hand lightly on the mark on Dean’s arm. He was probably more intoxicated than he thought because the light touches on his throat had him shivering.

He shouldn’t have been letting himself touch or letting himself want this, whatever it was Dean wanted from him right now; he wasn’t sure what it was but he wanted it. More than he wanted anything else, he wanted this. Had wanted it for a long time if he was being honest with himself. Maybe it was the fact Dean was carrying around a bit of his grace, or maybe it was just how both infuriatingly complex and simple the man was.


	4. Jumping the Gun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dean gets a little too exited, Castiel panics, Crowley turns up to be himself, and Azrael gets snarky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an RP fic between EagleofMasyaf and myself. Eagle plays Dean, Sam, and Crowley. I play Castiel, Bobby, and that vast majority of the angels that turn up. More tags will be added as we add more chapters. This is set mid-season 6 right after Sam gets his soul back.

Dean had about a few seconds left of brain function to wonder, dimly, how the hell Cas had managed to remain unmolested this past year and a half—he chalked it up to people instinctively feeling something wasn’t quite right, or normal—because, from where he sat, he suddenly couldn’t remember anything more desirable than those lips. For a few brief, mad and totally torturous seconds he imaged, clear as day, Castiel’s mouth around his dick and groaned, a low, yearning sound that would probably have freaked Cas the fuck out if he’d known what had brought it on.

So he nodded, wisely decided to shut his trap and leaned closer to breathe in those last few inches of distance. He’d expected something tingly, maybe, crackling like electricity. What he got was a simple, familiar and warm press of lips against his, though they were slightly chapped. The stubble was different, something gritty and seldom felt, just against his upper lip and chin as he pressed closer, trying to at least keep this reasonably chaste.

Of course, that plan went flying out the window about three seconds into it, because, dammit, this was Cas, willing and pliant and not exploding his soul out of him for daring this madness; Dean released a shaky, growling breath and played his tongue along Castiel’s lower lip. And then instinct took over and the next few seconds were a fast blur he couldn’t quite remember. One moment he was lying on his side, propped up on an elbow and the next he was up onto his knees and rolling, until he could hover over Castiel, snake one hand upwards to curl fingers at the nape of his neck and pull him closer.

And the kiss wasn’t chaste any longer; he was devouring the angel, licking and biting lightly at his lips until he could pry them to open to him, and then breathing and tasting him, which was better than he’d thought because any fantasies of this had never included a faint, lingering taste of sweet rum. When his free hand slithered up to loosen Castiel’s tie he finally drew back, out of breath and dazed and hard as rock within his jeans, and glanced up at the angel’s face, seeking approval, permission, whatever he could get as he slowly slipped the tie from its knot and pulled it free.

“Think I’ve been… wanting to do that for a while, Cas,” he said after a sharp intake of breath when his fingers finally managed to pop the first two buttons—not quite, really, because he’d never actually seen Cas with his damned shirt buttoned all the way up—of his ridiculous, sensible white dress shirt. A thumb against the side of Castiel’s jaw gently pushed up and now there was a long, smooth expanse of throat just begging for Dean’s lips and he complied, inhaling sharply as he pressed close and worried at the skin there, mouth moving in alternating patterns of licks, bites and suckling, wet kisses, because dammit, he couldn’t get enough.

Castiel stared up at Dean, dazed. He hadn’t been expecting the kiss to be so thrilling or that he would be so excited afterwards. “I’d have to agree,” he murmured, a little surprised to find his hand fisted in Dean’s shirt. He wanted more though he didn’t know what more was exactly.

Then Dean was licking and nipping along his neck and all he could do was let out a shaky moan. He didn’t know what to do with his hands or the rest of his body. It was like he was being washed away by some unstoppable force that was Dean. He desperately wanted to explore Dean’s body with his hands and mouth, as Dean seemed intent on doing to him.

But he had to be mindful of their strength difference because he knew pain would probably negate everything else. So he let Dean lead the way and tentatively mimicked what he could. He ran a hand up Dean’s back and curled his fingers lightly around the nape of his neck. This was amazing and far more contact than he’d ever anticipated from Dean.

Whatever doubts remained in Dean's mind were slowly dispelled when he felt Castiel’s fingers moving hesitantly up his neck. He revelled—fucking revelled, dazed and way too far gone to notice how uncertain, how stiff the movements of the body underneath him were—in the shaky little noise that came out of Cas’ mouth as he nipped lightly at the skin under his lips. This was beyond weird, beyond wrong, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

He hadn’t gone for men in years, had thought he was over this, could barely remember the last time he’d done this; and it’d been unremarkable and a little shameful, really, when he’d ended up on his knees in some empty and ridiculously cliché local gym with a guy’s dick shoved down his throat. He’d been ashamed of it afterwards, because he hadn’t even bothered to know just who it was he’d been sucking off. And that’d been the last time; because Dean could deal with a lot of shit, but shame always brought him up short.

There was no shame here; only a furious, burning desire to see what other sorts of noise he could wring out of Castiel. The brothel had been a spectacular bust, a couple months ago. Hilarious, but still a failure—and in hindsight, he could admit he’d felt a tiny little pang of jealousy when he’d sent Cas off with the whore, though he’d covered it with his most self-satisfied, lecherous grin at the time. 

He was damned if he was going to fail now. Even if he had no idea how far he could take this. “Cas, buddy, you with me on this?” he purred, leaning upwards against the hand at the back of his neck to let Castiel know he was totally a-okay with touching. 

He let his fingers trail down the angel’s throat, deftly popping the next three buttons before reaching lower to disentangle Castiel’s hand from his shirt. Dean leaned down, pressed his lips briefly to Cas’ wrist—a few strokes of his tongue against the pulse point, there, then teeth, because he’d always himself loved the sharp contrast between soft, wet tongue and the light sting of teeth—and pulled the angel’s hand up then down onto the bed by Castiel’s face.

And then he resumed his slow descent, bringing his mouth back down to Cas’ throat and continuing lower, chasing the edge of the shirt down a chest that was decidedly masculine. Soft, sparse hair tickled his nose a bit and he chuckled, voice muffled by skin, until he found his way to one nipple, which he attacked delightfully with his tongue. Drunk on skin and lust and alcohol, he wasn’t even aware he was lowering himself down against the angel until he found himself pressing lazily against Castiel’s thigh in one long, slow glide that brought delicious friction and pressure against the front of his jeans, where his erection was starting to get annoyingly impatient.

Castiel’s breath hitched and he worked his fingers against the back of Dean’s neck as he stared up at the man. He didn’t know what ‘this’ was; he simply knew he was enjoying it and that no matter how strange things were he could trust Dean. “Dean,” he gasped, squirming against him, still wanting more. “I… don’t know what to do…”

He shuddered as Dean’s lips worked against his wrist. It was like his skin was on fire everywhere Dean was touching him. “Please… show me what to do…” He couldn’t help it, he wanted to know how to make Dean feel this good. But all he could seem to do was let himself be washed away before the insistent touches and the mouth against his skin and try to remain coherent.

His hand crept up and under Dean’s sleeve to fit itself over the brand on his shoulder as he arched up against Dean’s mouth on his chest. It was hard to keep any of the tiny needy sounds he was making to himself. He didn’t even have the excuse of being intoxicated like Dean did. He was probably breaking so many rules letting this happen—wanting this to happen—but he didn’t care.

Castiel’s words—his trust, his unerring confidence that Dean wouldn’t lead him astray, his blind desire to please—were devastating. They settled over Dean like a banked fire, snaked down his spine and went straight for his cock; he bit back a low groan against Castiel’s chest, nearly closing his teeth around the skin in his mouth before forcing himself up and away. Looking down at the angel—God, he was dishevelled, even more so than usual, an endearing little flush on his cheeks, lips faintly bruised and swollen—most definitely didn’t help.

The hand against his shoulder, under his shirt and flat against the skin, a lot warmer there than it had any right to be, gave him pause for a moment, destabilized him. Something like doubt crept over him then—too fast, and this was madness, Cas had only agreed to a kiss, he was letting his hormones take the wheel—but he quickly shrugged it off, unwilling to delve that far into something he didn’t completely understand.

“Hey, it’s fine. It’s fine, Cas, this isn’t about me,” he assured him, though that wasn’t the complete truth. His mind was already spinning, providing him with images of Castiel asking, trusting, following Dean’s lead as he gently pushed him down onto his knees and— Fuck. A strangled groan escaped Dean and he fought, so hard, not to buck against Castiel’s hip. “Just… take it easy.” He flashed Castiel a grin full of confidence that was only half-faked. “Trust me, I know what I’m doing,” he added before lowering himself back down to capture Castiel’s lips again.

This kiss wasn’t nearly as controlled as the first one, though Dean did try to rein himself in a bit. He lapped at Castiel’s lips and quickly deepened the kiss, scrunching his eyes shut as he tried to remember this wasn’t about him. Really, you could only be a virgin for so damned long and he was damned if he was going to put his own needs before something that was probably several thousand years freakin’ overdue.

He released Castiel’s lips and kissed his way down the angel’s cheek to an earlobe—and, yeah, there was that smell again, a long-faded whiff of some unknown brand of shampoo that mixed strangely with a hint of power, a clean scent of thundershowers and electricity, like ozone and sparks under his nose—which he worried for a while between his teeth. His hand, the one that’d been holding onto Castiel’s wrist, quickly snuck down between them and he worked the angel’s ridiculous business slacks open, popping the button and forcing the zipper down before sneaking his fingers inside.

And then he jumped the gun, because goddamn, he hadn’t been this keyed-up in years and he wanted, needed, flesh under his fingers. His fingers found thin, silky material, he frowned, worried his way back down to Castiel’s throat and slid his hand under the waistband of the angel’s underwear until his fingers brushed a hard warmth. Cas wasn’t nearly as excited as he was—the flesh under his hand was only half hard—but Dean still chuckled against Castiel’s neck and wrapped his fingers around him in a loose fist, giving his flesh one long, slow pull.

Castiel was amazed by Dean’s confidence in himself about this. Though it made sense that Dean would be confident about this sort of thing, it didn’t make as much sense for Castiel to want it as badly as he did. He definitely did want it though, and that should have worried him.

But the angel returned Dean’s kiss readily. He liked kissing, he decided as Dean deepened it. He found he even liked whatever it was Dean was doing to his ear and neck. He let out another strangled groan and kept his grip on both Dean’s arm and neck light. He would not, could not, let himself hurt Dean.

It took him a moment to notice Dean’s hand fumbling with his pants. Castiel shuddered as Dean’s hand brushed against his boxers. He’d never really paid any attention to his vessel’s groin before, it was just there. Now it was like there was building heat and pressure that seemed connected to everything Dean was doing to other parts of his body. He couldn’t help but make a choked little sound and shiver as fingertips brushed against his length.

Then there was a hand wrapping around him, stroking and teasing. It felt good, better than good, really. And that scared Castiel; sins of the flesh were not meant for his kind. This sort of debauchery was not allowed. While not strictly forbidden by the word of God, angels in general frowned upon it. He went stiff and made a little whimpering sound. He shouldn’t be allowing this, shouldn’t be delving into temptation like this. He made a little panicky sound and with a rush of air vanished out from under Dean.

Dean managed another slow stroke of the flesh in his hand—back down once, squeeze lightly then teasingly rub back upwards, thumb pressing firmly against the head, just like he liked it, really—before he registered the noise Castiel had just made. It sounded thin and strange, choked with something he couldn’t quite identify and when he reared back to ask if everything was okay the angel just freakin’ blinked out of existence from underneath him, leaving him to nearly pitch forward into the lumpy bed before he caught himself.

He swore colourfully and flailed both hands onto the bed, looking around the cheap hotel room hazily. There was, of course, no angel to be seen. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Jesus, Cas, this is not the time to pull a disappearing act on me,” he growled into the silence, though it sounded petulant even to his ears.

Slowly, painfully, he wrestled himself upright and dragged a shaking hand over his face. Bad move. Musk and that faint scent of ozone and rain he was starting to associate with Castiel assaulted his senses. Dropping his hand, angry at himself, at the world and just angry in general, he slowly got to his feet.

“Shit, I’m an ass. And that, children, is why Dean Winchester can’t have nice things,” he muttered to himself. Castiel was nowhere in sight. He was still raging hard. Something like a choked-off sob escaped him before he could control it and he reached for the phone in his pocket with shaking hands. He debated on calling Sam again, if only to ground his idiot brain back into something resembling reality. But of course Sammy would know something was off.

And of course he’d never hear the end of this. Probably Sam would know exactly what was off the moment he heard his gruff, strained voice, and would cackle in that quiet way of his, then later would elbow him sharply in the gut and go ‘So hey, that motel room in Arizona, huh. Wanna talk about it?’. And Dean couldn’t stomach that, not now, not later, not, he was pretty sure, ever. So he stuffed the phone back into his pocket, furiously tried to ignore his damned, traitorous dick and flopped himself onto the bed, determined to put all this behind him, for now.

He could deal with Cas’ freakout tomorrow. Everything could wait until tomorrow, really, when he was sober, possibly hungover, and back on the hunt again. A faint glare down towards his crotch served as a reminder that he should just get some goddamned sleep. It took quite a while for him to fall asleep, and when he did it was blissfully empty of dreams, just a long, dark quiet that stretched towards something he wasn’t sure he could name.

Castiel spent the night in Wolf’s Hole investigating there rather than going back and facing Dean. He still wanted to give in to his desires and go back by the time he’d finished looking around and found nothing. So he cloaked himself to be invisible to human eyes and checked in on Sam and Bobby. 

He found them asleep and fine. He lurked around the hotel until it was morning. A little surge of power had set him to rights without any outer signs that he’d been pawed over. He steeled himself and sent himself back to the hotel room and where Dean was. 

He shouldn’t have let things go as far as they had. It was unfair to Dean for him to lead him on like that and it was unfair to himself to think he could have something like what he’d briefly experienced. He wasn’t meant to touch another, to let himself be touched the way he had, no matter how much he desired it. Not to mention Dean had been influenced by alcohol and it had been wrong for him to take advantage.

He would have to be more careful in the future and not succumb to weakness. If nothing else it was dangerous to risk getting intimate with Dean; he could hurt Dean by accident if he wasn’t careful.

The morning hadn’t been kind to Dean. He’d woken up with a fierce, pounding headache and a throbbing dick that spoke of recent cockblock. Bits of the night had been missing, but he’d remembered just about enough to ensure that his morning hard-on hadn’t disappeared by the time he’d managed to drag himself into the rather close and small but clean bathroom.

Though memories of the previous night were sparse, he still had enough to be completely unable to concentrate until he was soaked and standing in the shower stall. Even the water and soap seemed to be conspiring against him; it was lazy and such a massive, fucking blessing to finally wash away the grime of their little trip to the mine that he pretty much decided to push down the faint memories of his molesting an angel of the freaking Lord.

Of course, that did absolutely nothing to help with his terminal case of blue-balls. Sighing, mostly clean but still lingering because, dammit, he was hard as hell and, best of all, alone, Dean leaned into the spray from the shower and reached down to loosely cup one hand around his traitor dick. His bastard flesh didn’t seem to care about how utterly he’d fucked up, of course. And it was bliss itself to lazily start to rub one off in the shower.

He got vocal halfway through it of course, because Sammy wasn’t there to overhear—and if Castiel’s name passed his lips, well, he wasn’t going to tell anyone about it— and he was way, way past due. One hand slammed against the wet tile of the shower stall as he got enthusiastic about things, his other hand running freely over his cock as he leaned into the spray and moaned, a deep, relieved sound that he would never have let fly if he hadn’t been alone.

And he was still jacking off—pretty vigorously, too—when his senses fucking blared and screamed and howled at him that he wasn’t alone. “Nnnh, shit, you’re going fucking insane, man,” he muttered as he half-turned to glance quickly behind him. Only to be met by Castiel’s level stare. His hand stilled, miraculously, and he gasped and very nearly turned around before his brain caught on with reality and shuffled him forward until he could thunk his head against the tile.

“Jesus sweet titty fuck, Cas, what the hell? Personal time. Right… now… This is it.”

Castiel blinked in surprise as he was suddenly under a pleasantly warm spray of water. Almost instantly his hair was plastered to his skull and his clothing was rapidly becoming water logged. “My apologies,” he said, clearing his throat and quickly transporting himself out of the shower and into the main room of the hotel room.

He was still soaked when he got there but a little bit of power dried him off. He had seen Dean naked before, he’d reformed decaying flesh and muscles with his own hands after all. But this had been different; to see Dean naked and his skin glistening from his shower made Castiel want… things. Things he knew he shouldn’t want. 

Perhaps spending so much time so close to mortals was poisoning his mind. Opening it to doubt and desire with their ideas about free will. His kind were not built to have free will, or desires or to doubt, and yet thanks to Dean he had all of those things and that scared him. Because Lucifer had had desires and had doubted God’s will, had doubted their father’s love and wisdom and look where he had ended up. Michael and Gabriel had also doubted; they too were gone. 

But perhaps his doubts and desires were better than theirs had been. He doubted his brothers’ loyalty, and the rules they had come up with, and he desired to know more about humanity, to be able to touch and taste freely. He didn’t want to rule heaven, didn’t want to control humanity. He just wanted to be more like humanity. Maybe that was enough. Or maybe he would find himself smote to the ground for desiring such things. 

“Fucking… hell. I swear that little bastard will give me a damned heart attack one of these days,” Dean muttered as he slumped forward, breathing quick and nervous. Castiel had disappeared almost as quickly as he’d shown up after a brief apology, but of course this didn’t help in the least with Dean’s current situation. He was still hard, probably even harder than before, because goddamn, during those brief few seconds Castiel had been there he’d toyed with the idea of simply reaching out and pulling the angel closer.

Clearly that wasn’t happening now. And he couldn’t very well jack off knowing that Cas was probably waiting just outside the door—hunt, they had a hunt to do, and fuck but it was hard getting his brain to refocus back on the important things right now—because, really, how awkward would it be if Dean slipped and ended up growling an angel’s name as he painted this little motel room shower when said angel was waiting just outside the door?

So he sighed, thunked his forehead firmly against the cool tile and waited. His brain supplied him with several thoughts it thought he could use to cool down; Zachariah wearing a damned ballerina outfit seemed to be the all-time favourite. It still took a few minutes for him to stop shaking enough to feel even passably human, and when he stepped out he fought with the damned towel because even that seemed too much for his oversensitive skin.

Finally, after a brief shave and a rapid and perfunctory brushing of his teeth, he shuffled outside of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. Castiel was waiting, standing stiffly between the two double-sized beds. Dean cleared his throat and made a beeline for his duffel bag, using the excuse of digging into it to avoid meeting the angel’s gaze. 

“So, we heading out to this other place, then? Wolf’s Hole, was it?” he muttered as he wrestled a fresh pair of jeans and underwear from his pack.

“I checked Wolf’s Hole last night. It’s empty; we should head out to meet up with Sam and Bobby,” Castiel said, briskly forcing himself to take a step back from his fondness for Dean and go back to being what he really was; an angel of the Lord. He had to distance himself before he messed up his friendship with Dean. 

He was an angel and angels were supposed to be above such base desires. So he would fight his way back to what he was supposed to be and stop hoping to be more than that. “I would advise you to thank Fortune before you leave. The luck doing so should prove useful, and I believe she may insist on you leaving with more pie,” he said distantly, looking nowhere in particular. 

He could sense some of the buzzing thoughts that were on Dean’s mind but he didn’t dare read into them. He didn’t want to know what a fool he’d made of himself, or even if Dean remembered the night before clearly. He selfishly hoped he didn’t so he wouldn’t be faced with that awkward ball of unfamiliar feelings.

Dean only managed a strangled cough as he extirpated a pair of socks from his bag. “Yeah, well… Not sure I want to brave the cookie-lady this early in the morning, Cas,” he mumbled back. Christ, this was beyond awkward. His palms itched and he damn well knew why. But this… This was the Castiel he had known before and could easily recognize now, all righteous glory and clearly unattainable. 

And yes, it hurt like a bitch to know, to feel, that distance. But he wasn’t going to just roll over and take it, so he simply shrugged. “If there’s nothing for us here we should just head upstate, see what Sammy and Bobby managed to dig up.” Another shrug, and Dean hefted the clothes in his hand, shooting the angel a quick glance from the corner of his eye as he stood.

Mistake. Massive mistake. Castiel was just standing there, looking as distant and as unreachable as he ever had. But now Dean knew, had felt something beyond the creature that was supposed to be as immutable as stone and he wanted that back, wanted to feel skin and smell that faint buzz of electricity again. And just like that, despite everything, despite all the tension and the spats and the betrayals, he was at half-mast again. Damn everything, but it was going to be a hell of a long drive northwards before they could meet up with Sam and Bobby again.

“I’m just… Gimme ten to get dressed and we can be on the road again, okay?” he muttered, hefting the jeans and everything else before swiftly fleeing into the bathroom. Once there, he flung everything onto the edge of the bathtub and fought with himself, bent over the edge of the sink, glaring at his reflexion in the mirror.

“Jesus, what are you, fifteen? This is a freaking angel of the goddamned Lord,” he spat at himself. “And your friend, to boot.” He didn’t even dare approach the subject of ‘the person who dragged you out of hell and still believes in you’, because that was more uncomfortable than he was prepared to deal with right now. It took ages before he could compose himself enough to walk back out, half dressed and with his business-and-hunting mask on.

Yes, it was going to be a fucking endless drive. “I’m starving,” he all but growled as he walked back, shirtless and pissed at himself for being so easily distracted—Goddamn, he wished Sammy was here to knock some sense into him right now—and shuffled around in his pack until he found a clean shirt to pull up over his head. They hadn’t unpacked, so Dean stuffed everything he owned back into the duffel bag and made his way over to the door, waiting for Castiel. “We can detour by the restaurant before leaving, come on.”

Castiel watched Dean stalk back into the bathroom hidden safely behind his mask of Impassive Angel of the Lord. It hurt, because he could see he was hurting Dean. But it was better this way, safer for them both. He couldn’t mess things up if he didn’t reach for more than what he knew was his to possess.

He pretended he couldn’t hear Dean muttering to himself in the other room, couldn’t sense faint thoughts that seemed to want more. He knew, knew he could trust Dean, could happily let himself take that leap into the abyss after the man. After all he had fallen thanks to Dean; he had disobeyed and died, all for Dean. Why couldn’t he let himself want more?

Because it was not allowed. That was why, not because they were both male, but because Dean was human and he was not. Angels were meant to love mankind as God loved mankind, distantly and as cold and emotionless as statues. With a little frown at the way his thoughts were chasing themselves in circles, Castiel focused on Dean. “Lead and I shall follow, Dean,” he said softly as he followed him out of the room.

The restaurant was empty save for a few elderly couples having a late brunch. Mama Fortuna was bustling around from each of those tables, cheerfully plying them with more coffee or food as needed. She beamed when she saw Dean and Castiel enter. 

“Oh boys, so good to see you again. I thought you might have slipped out without breakfast,” she said as she bustled over to them. “That would have been a right shame. Now you sit down and I’ll get you some coffee to start with.” She patted Dean on the shoulder and hurried off.

“Coffee would be a damned blessing, ma’am,” Dean mumbled back just as the woman turned and left. He tried, God, he tried, not to dwell on the faintly reproachful looks he’d been getting from Cas all morning, and walked himself over to a free table, dropping his duffel bag heavily at his side before sinking into his chair with a grateful sigh.

He still yearned for Sammy’s ridiculous, all-knowing grin; at least then things might make a lick of damn sense again, and he could readily ignore the mixed-signals his traitorous dick was receiving from Castiel. In the meantime though, he settled for the promise of breakfast—hopefully drizzled in honey and swimming in fat—, which was nearly just as good. His mood rose as he focused on food, it usually did, and he managed a faint, slightly forced grin up at Castiel.

“I could just about eat a damned horse. Well. I’d settle for eggs and bacon, really,” he said, trying to keep his tone light and definitely not staring at the hint of skin he could glimpse peeking just below the collar of Cas’ very conservative white shirt. And he knew that freakin’ shirt should be all rumpled to hell this morning. The fact that it wasn’t felt a bit like a personal affront, as though even the angel’s wardrobe conspired to try and erase any trace of what had nearly happened the night before.

“Any news on Sammy and Bobby?” he asked as he used the excuse of perusing the menu to avoid Castiel’s ever so inquisitive gaze.

“I checked on them last night as well. They seemed fine,” Castiel said, sitting across from Dean and staring at a point just over his shoulder. The angel went quiet after that and focused on the host, checking in with his brothers.

Something had Azrael pissed. He could tell because the archangel’s brassy voice was rumbling like thunder and sparking with agitation. Distantly he could sense Raphael’s voice doing the same thing. Perhaps they were both going to square off and have at it. That would be the perfect excuse to leave and get some more distance from Dean.

A few moments later Fortuna returned with cups of coffee for them both and another bright grin. “What can I get for you boys?” she said, grinning brightly at them, clearly ready to take Dean’s order. The pagan god looked between the two of them after a moment and tutted at Castiel. 

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, sug’. But it’s stupid and you’re only hurting yourself so knock it off,” she chided, swatting the stone-faced angel on the back of the head with her order pad and wagging a finger at him. Castiel started then stared up at her with wide blue eyes. “You heard me,” she said in what could only be called a maternal voice.

“Yeah, okay, good,” Dean muttered back, frowning when he realized Castiel was completely avoiding looking at him and fighting the urge to turn around and see what the hell was so damned interesting behind him that Cas couldn’t even manage to glance his freakin’ way for three seconds. If it hadn’t been made painfully obvious that he’d fucked up the night before, well, this was driving it home with the force of a sledgehammer behind it.

He sighed and buried his nose in his menu, staring unseeing at the rows of words that would otherwise have had his mouth watering. At least there were pancakes, he thought, bordering on a ridiculous sort of high-strung despair. Mama Fortuna’s approach came as a total shock—he’d never even heard her bustle over here—and he glanced up at her with a faint, startled grunt.

Only to stare in shock as she whacked Castiel upside the head none too gently. For a few seconds, the angel’s eyes lost that distant, cold edge as bewildered confusion crept into his features. It was such a ‘Cas’ expression that Dean couldn’t help but smile, though he had no clue what the hell was going on.

“Going to go for the pancakes, ma’am. Sausage on the side, extra ham. If you got some caramel sauce, that’d be fantastic,” he said as he turned his attention back towards the woman, sending her a small, somewhat grateful smile and handing his menu up to her. At least some of the tension seemed to have evaporated, and Dean was damn well going to try his hardest to keep it that way. If that meant never speaking of what had happened in Arizona—‘what happens in Vulture Mine stays in Vulture mine’ didn’t have the sort of ring to it that could make it stick, but Dean could deal with that—then that’d be it and he certainly wasn’t going to complain.

Even if the thought made his chest feel tight as hell. “And coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. You… getting anything, Cas?” he finally added, chancing a look aside at the angel and dreading what he’d find there.

Castiel blinked and frowned at Mama Fortuna, ready to sink back into himself and got smacked again. The angel got the most perplexed look on his face after that. “Coffee is fine, thank you,” he said after a moment before looking at Dean.

Mama Fortuna beamed at them both. “I’ll be back in jiff, then,” she said cheerfully, taking both menus and bustling off to the back. Castiel watched her go before starting to add sugar and cream to his coffee. The angel seemed to be thinking hard. 

“Dean, I apologize for my behavior,” he said at length, looking up at Dean mournfully. “I admit I don’t know how to properly react…” He didn’t want to keep getting smacked or cause strife with Dean. He wished he knew what to do to make things go back to before they’d kissed. But that was probably never going to happen.

Bemused, Dean watched the exchange, one hand frozen over his own coffee. Something like Castiel’s usual look of distant blank detachment had nearly passed over his face but apparently their cook-turned-counsellor would have none of that. Cas got another light smack of the woman’s order notepad before she sauntered off. The look on the angel’s face would’ve made Dean laugh if it hadn’t been just so damned tragic. 

Besides, he was just a little mortified that the woman seemed to know so much. “Yeah, well. It’s fine,” he answered, gruffly, because, dammit he’d never been good at this. “I’m just glad Oprah over there is off your back, man.” He snuck a quick glance up at Castiel, something twisting happily in his gut when he noticed the angel actually taking the initiative and going straight for the sugar and cream, as though he’d always had a preference for his coffee light and sugary.

He made a mental note to remember that and shrugged, tensing a bit as he cleared his throat. God, he wanted to know what the hell was on Cas’ mind, but this wasn’t something they could just up and discuss right then and there. For one thing, there was a small family sitting at a table just to their left, and the husband kept glancing their way every few minutes. If he knew Cas—and he was pretty sure he did—broaching the subject of last night’s aborted hand job and swift flighty disappearance would probably prompt some totally honest and off-hand comment that, shit, Dean just wasn’t prepared to deal with in a motel diner with some random stranger casually listening in.

Still, he must’ve been either stupid or suicidal, because he continued. “You really don’t need to apologize, Cas. I… probably jumped the gun a bit, you know? Don’t worry about it.” He managed a hopeful grin up at the angel, took a long, slow sip of his own coffee—black, this morning, because, hell, his head was still throbbing and he was going to be driving a hell of a long while in half an hour—and let himself relive for a few seconds what had happened, still grinning into his cup.

And if he let his thoughts really dwell on just how much he’d wanted it the previous night, well, it was hardly his fault if Cas’ magical angel-fu picked up on it, was it? That was appropriate enough for a motel diner, he was pretty sure.

Castiel sipped his coffee once he finished doctoring it. He made a low pleased noise at the taste. “I may have…panicked,” he said at length and returned Dean’s smile with a small one of his own. He tilted his head and peered intently at Dean.

“Would you like me take care of your hang over for you, Dean?” he finally offered after taking another sip of his coffee. He licked his lips and tilted his head at Dean. He was stubbornly ignoring the tantalizing thoughts he could sense just out of reach. He didn’t want to know what Dean was thinking, because he wouldn’t allow his desires to ruin things.

He was saved from having to make further small talk by Mama Fortuna’s return. She set down a heaping plate of pancakes with sausage and ham in front of Dean and a pot of warm caramel sauce. “Here you go, hun,” she said, beaming down at him and setting down two boxes. “And these are for the road. I know how growing boys eat.” She patted Dean’s shoulder and bustled off again.

“I told you she would have pie for you,” Castiel said with a wry grin and sipped his coffee again. He peered at the boxes and looked amused.

Dean shook his head and chuckled, setting down his coffee cup as he spotted Mama Fortuna—this time he’d been looking for the woman, because he really was starting to get famished—busily weaving through tables their way. “Yes, Cas, I noticed you did, a bit,” he shot back, debating mentioning that maybe next time Castiel should simply holler or shove or anything but disappear. Because he really had no damned idea where they were going with this and even less clue if he’d ever get to attempt round 2. Properly.

He waved Castiel’s concern for his hangover away; that, at least, could wait until later. The last thing he wanted was to get all hazy-eyed with Cas’ hand on his face when Mister Grumpy at the next table was already giving them both the evil eye. He suspected it might have something to do with all these damned little glances they were exchanging. Chick-flick, all the way, but there was nothing he could do about it now.

Especially since the food was here and it smelled knee-wobbling amazing. “Oh, hell, would you look at that? Thanks very much, ma’am,” he called out after Mama Fortuna, eyes glued to his plate. Picking up his fork and glancing briefly at the boxes, he waved the utensil at Castiel before digging into his meal. “Hey. Nobody likes I-told-you-so-ers, smart ass,” he quipped automatically at the angel, though his tone was fond and light, and the corners of his mouth kept quirking upwards.

Sammy would have grilled him for it—little bastard knew weakness when he saw it—, but he was pretty sure Cas wouldn’t mind at all. He wolfed through his breakfast, pancakes, sauce, ham, sausage and all, in record time, sipping at his coffee between bites. When he was done he reluctantly pushed his plate away and leaned back in his seat, peeking into one of the boxes.

“Oh, she’s good,” he exclaimed with a low whistle, “It’s apple pie.”

Castiel chuckled. “I will keep that in mind, Dean,” he said, sipping his coffee. He found he liked coffee and made a mental note to ask for it when he was in diners with Dean and Sam in the future. It would help him blend in better.

“I’m sure you’re meant to share them,” he added wryly, grinning at Dean. It was a lot more comfortable to be relaxing and simply pretend nothing had happened. It would help him keep his hands to himself. Not that Dean seemed to want that, considering the overtones. 

“Shall we go or are you going to bury your face into one of those pies and not come up for air until it’s gone?” he asked, tilting his head and peering intently at Dean. He did enjoy teasing Dean about his eating habits. He enjoyed teasing Dean in general though he was still new at it. 

The angel hoped he would have more chances in the future to practice his ‘people’ skills. Balthazar would be pleased to find he was, as the other angel would put it, ‘having the stick removed from his ass’.

Dean huffed out a mock breath through his nose, narrowing his eyes at Castiel. This was new. He wasn’t too sure what to make of this more sociable side of Cas; probably Sammy was a bad influence somewhere in there. “Hands off the pie, man,” he said as he stacked both boxes together on the table and slowly got to his feet. Another small stack of bills was liberated from his wallet and dropped onto the table. 

“If you play nice with the car’s radio, I’ll think about sharing.” Pensive, he bent over the table, wrestled a napkin free from the stack lodged behind salt and pepper shakers and dug a pen from the inside pocket of his jacket, quickly scribbling a note—a short letter of thanks for the nosy pagan Goddess who’d seen through Castiel’s shit—which he slid under the money on the table after a quick glance at Castiel, as if daring him to comment. “Can’t believe I’m getting teased by an angel, now,” he muttered.

Behind him, at the next table, Grumpy-family-man almost choked on a piece of sausage. His wife patted his back with a concerned frown a few times.

Dean shot a faint grin at Cas, picked up the two boxes and pushed them against the angel’s chest before bending to retrieve his duffel. “Yeah, yeah, we’re going. We can eat one in the car—mind the crumbs, though—and give the other one… I mean, if there’s any left for Sam and Bobby… Well, it’s a long shot either way.”

And because the coughing and glaring was starting to get on his nerves something fierce—the back of his neck was nearly burning with it—he paused as he passed Castiel by, reached out and pointedly tugged on his tie a bit. “Go wait in the car, angel.” A pleased smirk as he almost felt heads turning. “I’m just gonna detour by the front desk, get us some coke for the road and we can blow this small town.” It was so tempting to turn the Winchester glare on the idiot at the table behind them, but that would’ve been too easy, so he settled for a quick nod towards Mama Fortuna and a swift retreat.

Castiel shook his head and took the boxes from Dean. He could hear the couple in the next table’s thoughts; they were circling around all sorts of thoughts on what they believed was sin. It amused him on some level. It also insulted him as an angel.

“Alright,” he said agreeably and headed towards the car, walking because people were watching. He settled into the passenger seat and peeked at the other pie. It was blueberry, and there was no way Dean was going to share either pie. He was trying to figure out why Dean calling him angel and tugging his tie had his stomach doing happy little flips.

He wished he knew more about how to handle humans so he could fix things. He also wished for… a lot of things; none of them were important at this point though. While waiting for Dean he let his eyes close for a moment and checked in again with the host. Azrael was missing from heaven and his voice was strangely silent among the host; he wasn’t dead but he was hiding himself. That had Castiel frowning. 

Balthazar couldn’t say where the archangel had gone or why he was gone. That was worrying. He would have to check into this. He couldn’t afford to piss Azrael off too and he didn’t have the power to go head to head with either of them; he would simply have to find out what was going on.

It was the business of a few moments to pay for their room and hand in his key, and so Dean reached the car when Castiel was still leaning forward and sneaking his face close to the topmost box on his lap. He quickly opened the Impala’s driver-side door and slipped behind the wheel, gently slapping his hand down on the box as he twisted around in his seat and flung the duffel bag in the back of the car.

“Don’t you dare,” he warned good-naturedly at Cas, pointing at the boxes. “They’re for lunch.” Half a minute later they were already zooming back up the highway, driving northwards toward Idaho. He wrestled his phone out of his pocket and dialled Sam’s number.

“Did you find anything new?” came the swift reply, before he’d even had the chance to open his mouth.

“Morning to you too, Sammy.”

He almost heard the eye roll. “Morning, Dean. Did you find anything?”

“Nothing to write home about, unless you count my new friend Bellybeans. I’ll tell you when we get up there; heading your way right now. We should be there ‘round about nightfall.”

“Gotcha.” A pause. “Cas with you?”

Dean blinked. “Of course he’s with me. Where else would he be?”

“Just asking. See you guys later, I’ll text you the motel’s address.”

“Wait, wait, wait, Sammy, why can’t you just—“ The line went dead and Dean frowned. He hated texts. He never could find them again and they didn’t appear in his normal voicemail messages list. Sighing, he handed the phone over to Cas. “Here. You get pie if you can find Sam’s damned message.” He shuffled around under his seat, produced a tape and slid it into the radio. 

“In the meantime, we are going to go from AC/DC all the way down to ZZ Top. Thirteen hours, man. And no grumbling about the speed of this ‘mode of transportation’,” he added with a quick glance at Castiel. And if he could manage not to stare, or grope or otherwise do anything stupid, they’d get there just fine.

Castiel looked from the phone to Dean and back again. “You do know I can just transport us both there and the car as well, right?” he asked, tilting his head to the side. He could have of course simply gone to where Sam and Bobby were then came back with the address if he really wanted.

“Would you like me to take care of your hang over now, Dean?” He was already fiddling with the phone with a small frown. He hated cell phones; they were confusing and mostly useless. The thing went off in his hand, signalling a new message, and he dropped it on the pie boxes with a grunt. 

He might have muttered something unflattering under his breath at it and started again. It was less about the pie and more about helping Dean. He would have preferred to watch Dean eat but he enjoyed watching Dean do things. Finally, he tossed the phone onto the dash and glared at it. “I already know where Sam and Bobby are staying. The address is unimportant.” 

Without waiting for Dean’s okay, the angel reached up and touched the roof of the Impala. It was nothing to move the Impala from the road to a parking spot next to Bobby’s beat up Shelby and shut off the engine. “I apologize for your obstructed bowels and suggest eating more fibre,” the angel said flatly, giving Dean a ‘bitch about this, I dare you’ look.

“I can deal with the hangover just fine, Cas. It’s not my first rodeo,” he answered, eyes fixed on the road for the moment as he accelerated and passed a massive van. When he returned to his lane and turned back towards the angel, he found Cas glaring at the phone, which made him grin. He was settling back into his seat, chuckling under his breath, when Castiel interrupted his thoughts. 

“What do you mean, the address is unim—“ And the world lurched sideways for the blink of an eye. When his head stopped swimming—he was still clutching the wheel with one hand dazedly—the landscape had changed drastically and they were parked next to Bobby’s car in front of some unfamiliar hotel. Dean hastily removed his foot from the gas pedal when he realized the car had stopped and turned in his seat, only to be met by the full force of Cas’ ‘serious business’ face.

“Oh, come on…” he most definitely didn’t whine, before snatching his cell back from the dash. “Not cool. You don’t get to play angel-fu with my car,” he grumbled, leaning closer and trespassing on the angel’s own personal space, for a change. He snuck a quick glance towards the hotel, glared down at the boxes in Castiel’s lap and sent him a mock-frown as he slowly took the pies away.

“No pie for you. And leave my damned bowels out of this,” he added as an afterthought, leaning back and sliding his keys free from the ignition. Dean got out of the car, wrestled with the boxes and the door and duffel bag for a few seconds and made his way towards the hotel.

Where he was forced to wait for Castiel, because of course he hadn’t gotten Sammy’s text and wasn’t sure which room, exactly, was theirs. Happily a door opened as he approached and his brother came barrelling out like the overgrown limbs-surplus-retail creature he sometimes could be, a confused expression on his face.

“Did you just…?”

Dean raised a hand. “Don’t ask.”

“But I thought—“

“Sammy.”

“Okay, okay.” Sam raised his hands in surrender and nodded at Castiel. “Bobby’s inside,” he added with a curious look at Dean’s car, as though he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. As Dean shuffled past him and into the room, Sam raised his eyebrows at Castiel and pointed at the Impala questioningly.

“Never thought I’d see the day. You messed with the car and survived. Imagine that,” he said quietly, a grin spreading on his face.

“Your car is fine, Dean. It’s easier to move inanimate objects than humans. So if you are fine, it follows that your car is also fine,” Castiel said, staring back into Dean’s eyes, unfazed by the invasion into his space. He had the fiercest urge to lean in and kiss Dean again, but he checked that urge.

He found himself smiling as Dean stormed off and he trailed after him. “Dean thought trying to have me get the address off his phone was smart,” he said with a straight face. “I doubt he’ll do so again.” He walked into the room past Sam.

Bobby was inside reading some ancient looking book. “Huh, take the angel fast lane, did you?” he asked, looking up at Dean. “Been reading up on our new friend Belial, and Samael,” he said, tapping the yellowed page in front of him.

“Castiel, how much do you know about Samael?” the older hunter asked, earning himself a frown from the angel and a prolonged silence that might have been worrying if it wasn’t for the fact that it was normal for angels to go quiet when they were deciding whether to talk or not.

“Samael is dead,” Castiel said at length without blinking or any sign he was going to expand on that.

“That’s not what I asked,” Bobby countered, glaring at the angel.

“That is the answer you are going to get.” Castiel’s voice had gone straight into his ‘I am an angel of the Lord’ tone. Hard and cold, his expression shifting to match it.

Dean shrugged, part of his bad mood front evaporating in the face of the old hunter, as it often did. “I didn’t take the angel fast lane. The angel fast lane just freakin’ happened, thank you,” he mumbled back, dropping his pack on the nearest bed. Sam and Castiel entered behind him and he spared a single quick glance around the room—two double beds—before staring at his brother.

He made a subtle little movement of his hand, indicating the room, then raised his eyebrows and mouthed ‘He snore?’ at Sam.

The look of quiet despair he got back seemed answer enough, so he chuckled, sank down on the bed next to his duffel bag and watched Bobby’s little interrogation out the corner of his eye as he grudgingly released the two boxes of pie next to him.

“Okay,” he voiced into the tense silence following Castiel’s words. “Cas, any info is good info, you know that. Whatever you know that could help, spill.” He turned back towards Bobby. “What do we know, then? Belial wasn’t exactly helpful. What I got so far is that somebody’s making trips downstairs and recruiting. Somebody angelic, probably, stirring things up. Whoever doesn’t get with the program gets a taste of good old righteous smiting.”

And then, because that was pretty much the extent of what he knew, Dean slid his eyes back towards Castiel, matching him pretty much toe-to-toe in regards to steely glares, and decided to push. “Any thoughts on who that might be, giving the order to send out recruiting parties? We got a bunch of angel names you keep telling us are all dead. Nobody raises a damned army from the grave, Cas.”

“I am positive Samael is dead, because I saw him die. If you’d like I can summon Azrael and he can tell you all about it,” Castiel said, frowning at the room as a whole. He didn’t like thinking about this; the fallen were a touchy subject in Heaven. None of this was something that humans needed to know about.

“And why would he know better?” Bobby asked as he closed the book he’d been reading and faced Castiel fully. 

“Because Azrael killed him. Because Samael tried to convince the one angel he trusted most to fall with him, and Azrael tore him apart in front of the entire host rather than see him fall. Samael is dead and he has been since Lucifer fell. The fallen were supposed to have been dealt with; it seems they were not,“ Castiel said distantly but clearly not wanting to discuss this anymore. 

“Well, someone is using Samael’s name, then. What about Belial? Or any of the other names we have. Why don’t you just tell us the whole story and who you think is running this? Or is that above your pay grade? Maybe one of your bigger siblings could answer our questions better.” Bobby’s tone was that of someone ready to pump a person for information.

Castiel tilted his head and narrowed his eyes at Bobby. There was a flash of temper in his blue eyes and several light bulbs popped before he could curb his wrath at being treated like their walking information source. Sometimes these humans seemed to forget he wasn’t one of them, that he was more powerful than they could understand and older than their entire species. He wouldn’t smite them into dust for insulting him but there were times—like now—that he thought hard about it.

Dean thought he might perhaps have stepped in before Castiel’s face closed in and his expression turned hard. God knew he’d been on the receiving end of that glare quite a few times before. He almost got up, Sammy shot him a worried glance and then things went to shit around them both. The lightbulb screwed into the fixture on the ceiling, the light in the bathroom and the bedside tables all popped, in a rapid fire burst of three sad little fizzing noises, sparking light and causing both Dean and Sam to jump.

Once the flare of light that had raked across his eyes died down and everything was gloomy and quiet again, Dean fully stood and pitched his voice in a fake cheer, directing a slight glare towards Bobby. Behind him, Sammy—bless his little heart—opened the curtains and let in some much needed natural light.

“Okay. We’ve established that this is getting us nowhere. We got books and laptops; we can do this the old-fashioned way. There’s no freakin’ need to go all Spanish Inquisition on anyone’s ass, here, Bobby.” Finally, he turned towards Castiel and fought not to fidget. It was, really, a bit absurd; every damned time the angel when all smite-y and righteous wrath, something in the pit of Dean’s stomach went ‘yeah, okay’, gave up with a sad, pathetic little sound and tried its hardest to turn his knees to jelly.

And of course it all went back to that one day in Illinois, in the barn, and that frightful, debilitating encounter in the back of an alley in a town he couldn’t remember, when he’d been ready to simply roll over and give up and Cas hadn’t let him. That was not a good memory to revisit. Because, yes, it had hurt like hell—being manhandled by an angel wasn’t fun, not by a long shot, and he’d carried the bruises from that little encounter for quite a while—but the memory of it, the sudden fierce intensity, the absolute faith Castiel had that he was in the right and that Dean needed to be brought back to his senses… That feeling made strange, unfamiliar things curl in Dean’s gut.

It might have been a bit worrying if Dean didn’t actually mind it all that much. There was a long, drawn-out pause, during which Sammy did his best to look occupied while Dean tried to rally what was left of his brain. “Cas? We good?” he finally managed, eyes flitting once upwards to the broken and exploded ceiling lamp socket before settling on the angel’s face. 

Bobby frowned as the natural light poured into the room. He wasn’t interested in backing down but angelic wrath was worrying and Castiel looked pissed. He finally raised his hands and dropped them in defeat. There was no sense in trying to get answers out of the angel when he decided to get like that.

Castiel stayed silent for several look moments before blinking and looking at Dean. “We’re good. I’ll go make some inquires, I don’t sense any angels or demons in the area. It’s safe to say they’ve already finished here,” he said with a distracted look. “I suggest heading back to Bobby’s. I’ll be back when I can.”

There was a rush of air and the angel was gone. Bobby snorted and looked between the boys. “I guess we can pretty much assume any biblical information is wrong,” he muttered disgustedly. “I can tell you the info I’ve found on Samael makes him out to be just as bad as the Devil if not worse. Belial is looking to be some sort of low-level mook. Whoever’s leading these things is something big.”

Sammy visibly deflated near the window and, yeah, Dean could sympathize right then. Once again, with Castiel gone, they had next to no leads on whatever the hell was going on. “Well, okay. We can dig; maybe find something that’s not directly related to scripture. I’ll hit the library once we get on the road.”

Dean nodded, both at his brother and at Bobby. “Hey, we’ve dealt with worse. Cas is upstairs asking around. I don’t think he’s gonna go rogue on us, so maybe we just lay low until we got some news. Hit the…” He paused, frowned. There was still pie to be eaten, and there was no way in hell he was lingering in some dusty library somewhere. “Sammy, you can hit the books on the internet. I’m all for driving back upstate. I think baby needs to get her mojo back on.”

“Back to your place, then, Bobby?” Sam piped in, looking a bit unsure. And Dean knew why, of course. Cas had been playing the hot and cold card on them for months. Sometimes he’d show when Dean called, sometimes he didn’t. It was difficult to remember, at times, that the stoic angel was completely on their side. And there was a gap, an entire couple of weeks, when Cas had simply not really been there, showing up only to give them important news or save them for certain doom.

Dean had never gotten an explanation on that, and he didn’t like it. Still, they had nothing else to go on, so he grabbed his pack, cautiously took the box of pies back from the bed and made his way to his car. “Yeah, we’ll see you there, man,” he shot at Bobby as he closed the door behind him. Sammy followed and got into the passenger’s seat.

“You think we’re missing some important intel, don’t you?” Sam said, and Dean could’ve punched him for stating the obvious.

He got behind the wheel and sighed, turning the key to get the car started. “Yeah. I do. I still don’t know why Cas would balk. I mean… This feels big, Sammy. Not as big as the apocalypse but…” It was worrying, and probably this showed in the set of his shoulders as he manoeuvred the car out of the parking lot and onto the road because Sam shot him this look, which he knew meant that his brother was worried.

“Hey, we’ve survived worse,” Sam said.

“I know. It’s just… I’m worried about—“ And he was. Worried to death about Castiel, about whatever the hell was going on up there that the angel couldn’t confide in him. He didn’t like the secrecy, didn’t like knowing only half the story because it meant he couldn’t react properly. And he’d made enough mistakes in the past not to want to rush in blindly and repeat them. “I’m just worried about him,” he finally finished, lamely, just as the first few bars of Highway to Hell started blaring through the radio.

His brother, thankfully, only nodded. “So am I.” If he saw something in Sam’s expression that went beyond his words, well, he didn’t mention it, only swerved onto the highway and frowned, heading towards the interstate that would take them both to highway 90 and, eventually, Bobby’s place.

Castiel was waiting for them standing on Bobby’s porch, watching the driveway with what could have been boredom. He had a thick leather bound book in his hands. He couldn’t tell them everything about the fallen angels because he didn’t know everything about them, but he had found a decent amount of information that might help.

He’d asked Azrael to come down and answer what he could. He didn’t know how much help the archangel would be because the fallen were a touchy subject, and Azrael was sensitive. Which was to say, slightly intimidating when pressed about things he didn’t want to talk about. 

It was possible that he’d been waiting on Bobby’s porch for a while, but the angel wouldn’t say either way. Bobby pulled in behind Sam and Dean and parked in his normal parking spot. “I expected to find you waiting inside, or, you know, not see you for weeks,” he grumbled as he got out of his car. 

Castiel tilted his head and frowned. “This is important,” the angel said simply. “I found some information that might be useful, and Azrael may decide to supply more information. He may not. It will depend on his mood, I suppose.”

Dean got out of the car and stretched, while Sammy made a bee-line for Castiel, eyes pretty much locked on the thick, leather bound volume in the angel’s hands. Dean was just glad to get out of the damned car and stretch his legs. He was also secretly relieved to see the angel there, as though nothing had changed, as though no massive Heaven-and-Hell plot was underway. 

He got his duffel bag out of the car, sighed, walked over to his brother and Castiel and shifted the bag onto his shoulder. “You managed to convince sucker-suck to give us the time of day, then?” Dean quipped, eyeing the book in Castiel’s hands, a little more subtly than Sammy did. “Because the last time we saw him, or her, or whatever the hell, all we got was grudging co-op, man. That didn’t bode well.”

“Since when do you expect ‘co-op’ from angels other than Cas, Dean?” Sam said, nearly signing the word with his exaggerated air quoting. 

Dean frowned, opened his mouth to speak but another voice beat him to it. 

“He doesn’t, of course. Our dearest Dean doesn’t expect much anymore, does he?”

Both Winchesters turned and glared, and Dean saw his brother nearly reach a hand out before he managed to slap his hand against Sammy’s arm. “Crowley. Thought I smelled putrid. The hell are you doing here? Did you run out of toys?”

Crowley stalked closer, all smug smile and crisp black suit. “I didn’t, of course. Simply protecting my business interests here, boy. Your angel friend,” he gave a sharp nod towards Castiel, a sly grin on his lips, “might just owe me a few favours. Give us the book, Cassie, and I’ll pretend your little friends aren’t cutting a swath through my dogs, for the time being.”

Dean almost swivelled on the spot to stare at the book in Castiel’s hands. “What’s it to you, Crowley? It’s just a book.”

“It’s a very valuable book. But, more than that, it’s a book our feathery friends don’t want found.” He smiled, something like teeth not quite pointing at the corners of his lips as he nodded at Castiel. “And, well… I’m a sucker for rare things, what can I say?” Crowley added with a loose shrug.

Castiel frowned, his grip on the book tightening with a creak of leather. “They are not my friends, Crowley,” he said quietly. “And you cannot have this book.” He was saved from having to say more by a rush of air and Azrael was standing between him and Sam.

Azrael’s coppery hair was tumbling into one bright, blue eye. He’d dressed his vessel in a black pants suit, black dress shirt and crimson tie. The archangel was mid-sentence. ‘-don’t see why you won’t just let me deal with the fall-“ He snapped his jaw shut and focused on Crowley.

If Castiel was frowning then Azrael looked outright hostile, all bright blue eyes and intent focus like the steady gaze of a bird of prey. The archangel tilted his head and stepped off the porch, there was familiar rush of air and he was standing in front of the demon. “So this piece of offal wrapped in a nice suit is the new king of hell,” he said, fishing in his suit pockets and producing a sucker.

“What excellent timing this is. Don’t you think, Castiel?” The archangel tilted his head and looked over his shoulder at Castiel. “I mean, clearly the offal wants my book. And it is in fact my book, so that means the offal should leave before I burn it out of existence. Because it is the best method of waste disposal, I know.” Azrael turned and fixed Crowley with a wide-eyed and clearly threatening look.

“Oh, don’t get your panties in a twist, love,” Crowley retorted with a small smile at Azrael, slowly shoving his hands into the pockets of his suit pants. “I’m only looking out for little old me, here. And I have, as you might not know, a prior engagement,” he added, looking pointedly past Azrael’s small frame to stare straight at Castiel. “Tell you what, I’ll…” He extirpated one hand from his pocket and waved, vaguely, slowly circling away from Azrael. “… Forgo the niceties here and go straight to the point.

“My people are getting butchered. This isn’t something I enjoy happening. You,” he gave a slight nod towards Castiel and turned away from him, gesturing at the red-haired angel, “have something I want. A book you clearly don’t want me to have. Call it a fair trade. You give up the book, and I don’t rain on your brother’s little gay human parade. Everyone goes home happy, nobody loses an eye.”

Behind him, standing stiff and uncertain, both Dean and Sam flinched when Crowley ignored Azrael and turned towards Cas. Dean, completely lost as to what was happening, twisted to shoot Castiel a pleading look, his mind screaming at him to speak, to ask questions, to understand. Sammy was staring at Crowley like he was a bad piece of meat and might up and fly off at any moment. 

“Really, it’s quite a nice deal. You don’t take it, well, any information that might leak out from outside sources, and trust me, I have many sources, is really not my problem,” Crowley added, and this time his gaze was completely focused on Castiel.

Castiel clenched his jaw. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Crowley. Now, unless you’d like to try and fight my brother Azrael for something that is his, I suggest you leave,” he said without blinking, hoping Azrael would back him on this and Crowley would be smart enough not to try the Archangel’s wrath.

“Are your people getting butchered?” Azrael asked, tilting his head. “How many of your people have already jumped ship like plague rats? That book is not for you. But if you’re a good boy maybe, just maybe, we’ll sweep up this mess before our fallen siblings get to you and roast you over your own fire. Or we could just burn the book and flap back to heaven and let you try and deal with a third of the heavenly host and an archangel waging war on hell. Because, you know, it’s not like we don’t have enough issues of our own.”

The archangel had seized Crowley’s tie below the knot by the time he finished speaking and was hauling the man off the ground. “So it’s up to you; you can either keep your trap shut and leave, and maybe we can do the whole enemy of my enemy thing. Or you can spew whatever information you think you have to put a wrinkle in Castiel’s happy little vacation.” Azrael dropped Crowley at that point and gave him a little shove away.

“Well, I suppose I could always rip out your sloppy bits. I mean, it’s not like you can do much about it; you are just a little piss ant demon, and I’m an archangel. So do you really, really, want two archangels breathing down your neck, ready to make you suffer for eternity, or do you want to play nice for now and run along? I mean, I’m game either way. Eternal damnation is ever so much fun and I’ve got nothing but time.” He spun his sucker around and fixed Crowley with an expectant look. He’d gone preternaturally still and seemed ready to gut Crowley either way.

"Fine, pretty bo-- Well, whatever you are, fine. Don't say I didn't try to play nice," Crowley hissed, stepping back further from Azrael and reaching up to adjust his collar and tie with a deep, insulted frown. "This would have been a lot easier, angel," and this he addressed at Castiel, "if your pretty red-haired friend wasn't so... hair-triggered," he finally finished, turning back towards Azrael with a slight grin.

"Keep your damned book. And... don't follow me, please, that would be terminally annoying for your little Winchester toys since I did bring a couple of my own pets with me. I'll see you all later, I suppose." And just like that, he was gone.

Dean swivelled around to face Castiel the second Crowley's smug, grinning face disappeared; the angel's face was tight with tension and Dean tilted his head, a mockery of Cas' usual expression, because he was starting to get nervous as hell. "Well, that was fun," he gritted out, eyes narrowing. "Anyone want to offer up a few details on what the hell he was talking about? What's the book about that Crowley would risk a deal with an archangel for it? And, uh..."

A pause, while Dean's eyes searched the empty lot of Bobby's property; all he saw was cars. “Tell me we haven't got a case of hellhounds around here." He felt Sam tense beside him, but the little bitch still shot him a faintly mocking smile.

"What? I just don't like 'em, okay?" And he was on edge, because once again they seemed to be the butt of some massive, cosmic joke, left to flounder around in the dark like the clueless monkeys all these other bigger players thought them to be. The fact that even Cas didn’t seem to want to share what he knew was unpleasant, raking across Dean’s senses like the memory of an annoying itch. He knew what that was about, too; resentment. Because, even after everything that had been said and done, suddenly he found himself face to face with the extremely irritating version of Castiel he thought they’d all left behind nearly two years ago.

“Only one,“ Azrael said lazily, his gaze fixed on thin air. “Should I kill it or just send it back home to its master?” The archangel tilted his head slightly and crunched loudly on the sucker he’d been sucking on. He seemed to decide on his own because he snapped his fingers and vanished. 

Castiel relaxed the moment Crowley left and cast a slightly frowny and mournful look at Dean. “Let’s get inside before we discuss the book.” He was still on the fence about sharing the book with them. He trusted Dean without question, but Bobby and Sam sometimes made him question if he could trust them. 

Bobby snorted and stomped up the stairs to the porch. “And where has his Highness run off to? Not very sociable your brother, is he?” the older hunter asked as he unlocked his front door and headed inside. Where Azrael was seated at the kitchen table, his legs crossed and up on the table. 

“I was making sure there were no surprises in here,” the archangel said brightly, gesturing with a new sucker. “There weren’t. Castiel, I really wish you’d reconsider about that book and letting me go take a look into the fallen. Or at least that slimy bastard that was just here.”

“Azrael, I’d rather you not spread your resources that thin. Don’t worry about Crowley; I doubt he will attempt anything again and the book is not staying down here,” Castiel said, fixing him with a look that meant there was probably another conversation going on that the humans couldn’t hear. Azrael snorted and in a blink was on his feet. It wasn’t clear if he’d stood up the normal way or used his power to stand. 

“Fine. But just because you trust the gibbons doesn’t mean I do,” he said, flipping his coppery hair out of his face and before Castiel could speak promptly stuck the sucker he’d been toying with in his mouth and vanished. Leaving Castiel frowning with a sucker in his mouth.

Dean visibly deflated a bit once Azrael disappeared; for one thing, the archangel made him nervous as hell, and he assumed that the redhead had zapped the hellhound before leaving. Hopefully. He detoured around the spot where Azrael had been staring carefully and followed up the stairs after Castiel and Bobby, silently pleased when Sammy turned and also stared at the empty patch of ground, hiding a faint shudder before following him inside.

He almost walked straight into Bobby when he ducked through the doorway though, as the old hunter had pretty much stopped in his track when he’d seen Azrael. But at least they were back on familiar grounds, even if things still didn’t make much sense yet. Dean walked around Bobby and stopped at Castiel’s side, almost laughing out loud at the look on the angel’s face when he got another mouthful of unwanted candy.

This time though, Dean was close enough to actually do something incredibly stupid; he reached out before Castiel could move and gently pulled the candy out of his mouth before sticking it into his own mouth, nibbling at it absent-mindedly. Cherry again, no surprise there. As he turned, however, there was surprise, written in big, massive, giant-ass glowing letters on Sammy’s face. In hindsight, that may have been because he’d stared just a bit too hard at Castiel’s lips as he pulled the sucker away from him. Slowly.

Dean frowned and shot his brother a shut-the-fuck-up look, which made Sam tilt his head but didn’t seem to convince him much. He knew there’d be questions later.

“Anyway,” he coughed, speaking around the candy and dropping his duffel bag on Bobby’s couch. “Grumpy’s gone to do… whatever it is he’s doing upstairs while you’re here, Cas, so… Maybe we should start to work on how the hell we’re supposed to stop a bunch of angry fallen angels?”

Sam finally tore his eyes away from his scrutiny of Dean’s face; Dean almost sighed in relief. “I’m guessing this is another of those books that we shouldn’t know about, or that shouldn’t exist? That’s why Azrael wasn’t keen on letting us have it,” Sam stated, plopping his long body on the couch next to Dean’s pack and retrieving his laptop from his own, much smaller, travel bag. “Can we see it?” he added as he flipped open the laptop and set it down on the small table in front of him.

Castiel blinked as Dean pulled the sucker out of his mouth and promptly stuck it in his own mouth. The angel tilted his head then apparently decided he was alright with Dean stealing his unwanted sucker. He caught Sam’s confused look and shook his head; he’d gotten used to Dean’s food stealing. 

“This book…” He looked at the leather cover of the book. “Over the centuries we’ve removed much of the information mankind had on angels. This is…perhaps one of the books that could be the most dangerous if in the wrong hands.”

He was still not sure he was going to hand it over. He frowned and tapped his fingers against the cover. “I am still torn about letting you see this.” He cast a worried and wide eyed look at Dean. He sighed and looked down at the book. Truth was, he didn’t really know what was in the book himself. He knew it had Azrael nervy and panicky about him letting the humans see it. 

Castiel took a deep breath and listened into the heavenly choir for a moment. “Alright, don’t be surprised if some of the pages are… unreadable. I have a feeling that Azrael has decided to censor some of the information in this. There are traps similar to devil traps that will contain any angel that is not an archangel and ways for humans to bind and harm an angel in this book. You understand why I’m concerned about letting go of this information, right?”

“We understand, Cas,” Sam answered, though he made absolutely no move to either get up or reach for the book, instead choosing to glance over his shoulder at Dean and nod. Dean could only send his brother a slightly confused look; either Sammy was getting a bit too perceptive for his tastes or he was going on the assumption that Dean had a better chance of not getting smote if he pushed the angel.

Which was probably true, but it still made him nervous that Sam understood this apparently better than he did. Regardless, Dean sighed and crossed the short distance to Castiel, nodding at him once. “You know we wouldn’t pull any shit behind your back. Sure, some of your bros and sisters are dicks, but…” He shrugged, trying to convey with the slight motion of his shoulders that he’d dealt with angelkind being a royal pain in the ass for this long, and he could still deal, just as long as nobody went murderous, conniving, pushy bastard on his family. Which, to be fair, had actually happened several times before.

“You can have the book back once we find what we need to put this all behind us, man. No foul moves, promise,” he added, reaching a hand out and waiting. This, while clearly a very different situation, was exactly the same sort of feeling he’d had back in that hotel room. Only then he’d made a total ass of himself, had stepped over boundaries that had been unclear to him and prompted Castiel to flee. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice and hoped the angel understood this, if nothing else.

Trust worked both ways, after all, and so far Cas hadn’t really let him down. Sure, he’d been his own brand of slight dick at times, withholding information and letting Dean flail angrily in the dark when he’d called—begged, even—for help. But he knew Castiel wouldn’t ever really do anything to jeopardize his safety—nor Sammy’s, nor probably even Bobby’s—if he could avoid it. He just hoped the angel knew he stood on the same page. So he waited, one hand extended, face expressionless, for Castiel to surrender the book.

Castiel looked at Dean for a long moment before placing the book in Dean’s hand. He didn’t let go of it right away but eventually he let it go and let his hands fall to his sides. He had a slightly pouty look on his face that was all uncertain and wide sad eyes that said he was still not comfortable about it. 

The book looked older than any of the books in Bobby’s library and was about the size of a small bus. It wasn’t the gold edged page sort of book, and the pages were not paper. “Azrael translated the pages into English so expect censoring…” he reiterated, glancing down at the book and trying not to look terrified that Dean was holding it.

Bobby looked like he was impatient to get his hands on the book in Dean’s hand but he wasn’t going to hurry to snatch it away. Probably because the angel in the room was looking like he was having double and triple thoughts about having handed it over. But he really, really wanted to see what would have Crowley chomping at the bit to get it and why the angels were so temperamental about it.


	5. Hustling Angels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sam and Bobby read a book, Dean makes a trip to a bar, Castiel tries figure humans out, Bobby a sneaky old bastard, and Dean has a weird dream.

Something warm blossomed somewhere in the recesses of Dean’s chest when Castiel finally dropped the book in his hand, an inexplicable little twitch that he still relished tremendously. He only managed not to drop the thing—it was heavy as hell, and much denser in his hand than it had looked in Castiel’s, for some reason—because this was clearly an important object and wouldn’t it have been just like him to send it tumbling gracelessly to the floor?

He nodded once, solemnly, then broke out in a wide grin. “Figures we’d get the censored version, so it’s cool. I promise I won’t let Sammy have at it with a highlighter pen, Cas,” he quipped, trying to dissipate the tension, before clasping his free hand lightly over the angel’s shoulder. Uncharacteristically, he took the book to Bobby but didn’t hand it to the old hunter, simply dropped it on the rather chaotic jumble that was the table where Bobby did most of his work and slowly opened it. For some reason he felt it necessary to angle his body away from the book, just so Castiel could keep an eye on it, as he peered at the first few pages.

There wasn’t much there that felt unfamiliar; old ink illustrations, somewhat medieval in style, which depicted the usual sorts of things. He flipped through the pages carefully. There were differences, of course; the banishing spells seemed to be angled towards creatures with wings instead of twisting bodies, distorted faces and pitch-black eyes. The text itself was almost rambling, like poetry or scripture, and after a few seconds Dean looked up at Bobby and shrugged, pushing the book gingerly towards him. Sammy was already at his side, practically bursting with curiosity.

“So… Okay, it’s a ‘how-to get rid of angels for dummies’, mostly. Anything in there that’s actually useful?” Dean asked before turning back towards the angel. Something prompted him to continue, because the mood was still strange and tight, and because he never could resist an inside joke, especially if it meant Sammy would give him that confused, ‘my brother is an idiot, how are we even related?’, stare. “No offence, Cas, but I already knew how to get rid of you. No more jumping the gun, remember?” he joked, because jokes were easier than this sinking feeling that this was the damned apocalypse happening all over again.

At his side, Sam tilted his head and blinked. Dean grinned.

Castiel frowned at Dean’s little quip but rather than move closer and handle the book himself he gestured and the pages flipped on their own until they were about mid way through the book. Bobby leaned in to look at the page closely and whistled.

“You guys can be exorcised?” he asked with a touch of amazement. “Like demons, this is everything we need to send anything celestial back to heaven,” he said, tapping the page. “And this is an angelic version of the key of Solomon.”

There was a rather complex sigil on the page that looked similar to some of the more complex devil’s traps out there but was clearly meant to hold an angel. Castiel nodded and looked uncomfortable about Bobby’s questions. “We can be exorcised yes. A fact we have worked very hard to keep out of demonic hands, and that sigil will only hold angels. Archangels won’t even blink at it. But the fallen should all be containable in one. Exorcise them and send them back to heaven, the host will… Deal with them.”

“You mean the host will kill them,” Bobby said as he carefully flipped through the pages. Some were simply blank or had text that whenever any of the humans tried to read it blurred into smudges. 

“Eventually they will die, yes. But not for a very long time,” Castiel said in his flattest ‘this is how it is and you can’t change it’ voice.

Bobby blinked but turned his attention back to the book. He paused on the first of several pages with nearly anatomical illustrations of angel wings. The text was quite clear that an angel in a vessel could not use his wings to fly, but they were useful in telling the power of the angel and the state of their grace. He whistled lowly again. “No wonder you weren’t keen on letting us see your wings, Castiel. It says here they’re the only physical manifestation of your true from you can manage without killin’ people.” 

“Lemme see that,” Dean grumbled as soon as Bobby finished speaking, tugging the book back towards him and all but glaring at it. Sure enough, the words were sharp and clear on the page, in a way that seemed to have little to do with ink and paper and a lot more to do with the sharp, clear legibility of it, of the idea of the written word. Grace and angel mojo, manifested into something that could be seen and, Dean knew, felt and touched. He was frowning, staring at the words as though he could will them to make sense.

He remembered, remembered reaching up even as he drowned from a deep, dark dream, remembered the shape of wings, tainted, yes, damaged, but whole and comforting in a way he couldn’t quite explain, even to himself. He remembered their touch against his fingertips, how utterly brazen he’d been with them when all the while he’d been staring at something that was so beyond his comprehension it didn’t make any sense even now. 

Dean became aware that Sam was staring at him with this wide-eyed, worried look when his brother shifted awkwardly beside him and he coughed, suddenly realizing that he’d been acting like a damned freak all morning. “So, uh…” He flipped back a couple of pages quickly, settling on the drawing of the modified binding sigil. “We go in armed with this, catch us one of those fallen angels and let the heavenly family do the interrogation?”

After a few short seconds he paused, turning back towards Castiel. “I don’t like it. I don’t know everybody up there, but so far, Cas, you’re pretty much the only one we’ve met that wasn’t a dick. No offence.”

Sam snorted and shrugged. “Gabriel wasn’t so bad.”

“Dude, he took a shot at your nuts with a japanese game show,” Dean answered absent-mindedly, sparing his brother a quick glance. That effectively shut his brother up. Dean sighed. “I guess we could try to go after that Belial again. Guy clearly knew exactly who he was working for; we’d get info out of him, at least,” he finally added, quite uncomfortable with the whole idea of simply capturing some idiot foot soldier and handing them over to whatever passed for information-extraction upstairs.

It felt a little too close to what he’d done, unwillingly, to Alastair, at Castiel’s and Uriel’s—forever ‘Junkless’—request, an eternity ago.

Castiel tilted his head to the side. “I didn’t say we would be interrogating them in heaven,” he stated with a small shrug. The seraphs would punish the Fallen for having disobeyed and sooner or later they would either die or repent and be allowed back into the host. That was how fallen angels were dealt with. He had been saved from it by the simple fact he’d been restored to life by their father and that meant he was special. 

Bobby frowned and gave Castiel a hard look. “What, you’ll just torture them upstairs for the sake of it?” he asked in disgust. “The more we learn about you angels the less difference between demons I see.”

Castiel didn’t seem fazed by the look or comment. “They would be punished for their crimes against the host and humanity. If you consider that torture then so be it. But this all is the most aid I can give you against the fallen. If the host was unified we’d deal with it ourselves but as it stands fighting a war on two fronts will be difficult,” he said simply without any sign of emotion.

“Then who or what will ‘deal’ with these fallen asshats?” Bobby asked and with another gesture the book flipped to the last couple of pages that seemed to be some sort of angel identifying guide and the page on Seraphs.

Dean nearly felt his brother tense from the few feet that separated them and, not for the first time, wished he could remember more of this stuff for himself. He was staring intently at the pages—beings of fire and light, so many wings they were hard to count as the multiple figures entangled into each other in blurry lines of ink—when Sammy’s voice broke through his thoughts.

“Well, that pretty much cements us as completely under-gunned then. Seraphs are, I’m guessing, not something we can even attempt to mess with. They’re second only to God himself, higher than even archangels, right?” Sam voiced, reaching out to gingerly drag his fingers down the page, where the illustration stared back at Dean, nearly hurting his eyes.

“It never ends, I swear,” he muttered, sighing and closing the book with a loud thump, Sammy nearly getting his fingers pinched before he could wrench his hand away. “Okay, so that’s the idea, is it? We can’t take them all on directly, so we hand them over to the big-bad-angel-police.” His face closed up as he resigned himself to once again put everything in the hands of creatures he couldn’t even hope to understand.

He firmly avoided Castiel’s eyes as he walked away from the table and the book. Bobby would no doubt copy everything he needed, and he was pretty sure the damned book would find its way back to its owner. Dean wasn’t pissed, not quite. But he was sick and tired of the way the world kept throwing them curve balls that only seemed to get more and more complex as time went on. If he was truthful with himself, he could admit he missed, fervently, the good old times when it had been just him and Sammy and the open road, with the vague knowledge that ghosts, spirits and gnarly creatures would perhaps be around the next bend in the road.

He’d thought he’d put all this mystifying heaven stuff behind him, once Lucifer and Michael had been stopped from having their little pissing contest. Raphael and this whole civil war he now loathed with a passion; and sometimes it felt like just too much to bear, with the memories of his time in the pit mingling unpleasantly with his current feeling of helplessness.

“I’m sure we can cobble up a proper game plan tomorrow. I’m… gonna go work a bit on baby then head out for a drink somewhere. Or something,” he growled, shouldering his jacket and walking to the door.

“Dean…” Sam began, worry creeping along his voice.

“Later, Sammy,” he barked back, the door slamming shut satisfyingly behind him.

“The Seraphs are to archangels…well imagine a glass of water compared to the vast expanse of the ocean,” Castiel said slowly and his voice held a tinge of what could be considered fear. “They maintain discipline in the host, not even the archangels will contend with just one of them.” He’d been at the Seraphs’ tender mercy once. That time he’d spent being reduced to nearly nothing by his most powerful siblings over and over again was still burnt into his brain.

Castiel watched Dean hurry out of the room with a frown. “Do what you need with that, I’m going to go speak to Dean about this,” he said and he trailed after Dean. Even if he just sat and watched Dean work on the car he didn’t want him to be alone.

Bobby shook his head the minute both Castiel and Dean were out of the room. “When do you think they’ll figure out they’re mooning for each other?” he asked with a greatly amused look. “I hope it’s sooner rather than later.”

Sam stared at Bobby, face drawn into a tight knot of discomfort. “Ugh. Don’t… Just don’t even go there. You think it’s bad? Half the time, I’m on the road with those two. Trust me, sooner can’t come soon enough. I swear, I’m this close to just locking them in the next motel and throwing away the key.” He sighed and picked up the book, carrying it over to his laptop. “In the meantime, they’re out of our hair, at least, and we can work,” he added.

Dean didn’t loiter long around his car. He’d planned to dig out some of Bobby’s tools and work out that annoying little twitch that sometimes happened when he hit 60 and fiddled with the wheel a bit, like something loose in the direction or a busted, aging steering rod. As soon as he reached the car though, he realized he didn’t much feel like it; it would probably be relaxing, but it would give him way too much time to think.

And the last thing he needed right now was time to think. Sammy would probably throw a fit at him if he got roaring drunk and he had nothing to kill. Next best thing was a quick roll in the sack; find some random pretty girl—try not to think of what he’d almost had in the hotel in Arizona—and convince her that the backseat of the Impala would be a nice place to spend the next hour or two. This of course reminded him that he wasn’t even sure the car could still run, given the little trip Cas had put her through.

Damned infuriating angel, Dean had sworn not to let himself get embroiled in more insane plots. But damn him and damn Cas, but he had never been able to say no when the angel turned those eyes on him; so furiously blue and guileless—No. He firmly stamped down the thought. Christ, he was loosing his mind. Just a damned quick tumble with some nameless pretty face; it’d been ages since the last time he’d actually had sex. He probably just needed to get it—the sight of wings, soiled and tainted yet still perfect—out of his system.

Shaking his head angrily, Dean circled the car and got into the driver’s seat, struggling to remember how good it felt to run his hands over soft, female flesh without the memory of grinding against Castiel totally obliterating that thought. He paused and thunked his head heavily against the steering wheel, trying to remember when things had gotten so damned complicated.

“Locking them in a room together is probably our best bet,” Bobby said with a snort. “I for one want to see if we can find a way around His Highness’s censor mojo and see what the angels don’t want us mud monkeys to see. You wanna help me? I got a computer scanner upstairs, let’s make us a copy of this thing while the angels aren’t looking.” 

Castiel lingered back from Dean, worried and at a lost at what to do. He glanced around, and after deciding it was safe for him to leave for a moment, disappeared in a rush of air, leaving Bobby’s junk yard behind. He didn’t know why but some dim instinct was telling him to go get something comforting for Dean and to bring it back.

He returned a few moments later to leave a plate of tiny bite sized French apple tarts and a six pack of some beer called ‘Stella’ on the passenger seat of the impala without transporting himself into the car. He perched on the trunk and waited for Dean to discover what he’d left behind and react.

When Dean finally managed to raise his head away from the steering wheel, he got as far as reaching for the ignition before a quick blink of movement in the corner of his eye made him look up. There was nothing there, and nothing outside the car either front or side that he could see. But lying on the passenger’s seat, where he was pretty sure there’d been nothing before except old, worn leather, was a plate of little pastries and a six-pack of fancy imported beer.

And, oh God, the pastries were still warm, releasing an almost unseen little wave of warm vapor, and the beer was ice cold when he reached a hand out and touched it. He frowned, huffed, and finally twisted fully in his seat. Castiel was sitting on the edge of the Impala’s trunk, facing away from him. And he’d brought a bribe, apparently, for some reason.

“Jesus freakin’ hell, this is getting absurd,” he muttered as he slowly disentangled himself from behind the wheel and stepped out. “It’ll be flowers and chocolates next, I swear. God.” A loud slam echoed as he closed the door and shuffled forward a few steps, glaring at Castiel’s shoulders as though he could will the tan trench coat to make sense of this on behalf of the angel. 

“Okay, I get it. I blew a fuse. No need to go and bake me cookies or anything, I’ll survive. Just…” He raked a hand through his short-cropped hair, a gesture he didn’t use often in front of Sam because he knew his brother immediately tended to guess something was bothering him. “I figured this holiday would maybe include ganking a few low-grade demons, chasing a few ghosts, old timer stuff, you know? Instead we’re chasing our own tails and trying to pick up the pieces of another late-night fight between your—“ He caught himself before he continued, frowned and gestured towards the car.

“Never mind. Hop in? I’m just heading to that little shack down the road. The beer is shit, but they have a pool table and nobody there ever asks any questions.” Truth be told, he’d welcome Cas’ usual invasion of his privacy; company made it was easier not to dwell on the fact that, even after everything they’d done, life still seemed to want to throw massive piles of doomsday shit at them at every turn. Winchester Curse; if it didn’t already exist, he was going to have to coin the term.

Castiel tilted his head at Dean as the man spoke listening to him intently. “If you want me to I’ll go with you,” he said, completely honest about the offer. He glanced back at the house and frowned slightly. “I shouldn’t leave the book unguarded…” He sighed then looked back at Dean. “But I suppose if Sam and Bobby encounter any problems they can call for me, and Azrael is no doubt keeping an eye out.”

“And I apologize about the problems, Dean. I didn’t know that this was happening, if I had…” He frowned slightly and looked at his hands. “Perhaps going out for a drink is a good idea.” He looked up at Dean and tried not look to like a kicked puppy. He wanted to take Dean somewhere he’d never seen before and watch him enjoy it.

There he was letting himself desire things again. It was a bad habit he was getting himself into. He was going to have to break it soon. Or figure out how or what he wanted from it all. Strange fluttery feelings in his stomach were not something the angel was used to at all, but they seemed to happen around Dean more often than not.

“Hey, it’s fine. I wasn’t blaming you,” Dean answered, motioning for Castiel to get in the car because there sure as hell was no way he was letting his baby get zapped around the InvisiAngel Highway twice in one day. Not to mention he’d already feel all out of sorts for the next few days. He’d have to ask Cas about maybe flying just a little bit slower, if he could, though, really he had next to no idea how the angels’ little Star Trek kung-fu even worked.

He got back into his car, reached over to slide the beer off the passenger seat then dumped the plate of small pastries onto his own lap as he waited for Castiel to sit. Of course, the pastries were right there, so he ended up eating nearly all of them on the short drive over to the bar, sharing one with Castiel. This went a long way towards making him feel better.

When they reached the bar Dean had to lightly manhandle the angel inside with a gentle hand against his shoulder. He silently cackled to himself, because the thought spurned this ridiculous notion of ‘angelhandling’. This of course degenerated quickly into a quick mental recap of what he’d done in that goddamned motel room in Arizona. Again. A bit dismayed at the way his own brain was apparently working—couple years ago he would have been scanning the dim interior of the shack for any potential hotness—he made a beeline for the bar and ordered a beer for himself as well as a very non-alcoholic cranberry juice for Cas. 

No way in hell was he risking getting the angel drunk again; Dean could only take so many weird situations where he ended up confused, alone, unsatisfied and with a throbbing, unspent dick. The pool table was currently occupied—a trio of kids, really, two young boys who reminded him fiercely of himself and Sammy at that age and some chick who almost screamed jailbait—so he meandered towards a free table nearby and sat.

He wasn’t sure what to say; so many subjects now seemed unapproachable. He wasn’t going to even touch on what had happened, because, hello awkward, and he didn’t want to think about their current situation. He’d fled, in fact, just so he could avoid thinking about this new fucking twist of fate, this new massive fight that, for some reason, had fallen on his and Sammy’s and Bobby’s shoulders again. Castiel’s presence and help was only a small consolation; Dean thought the angel deserved a freakin’ break as much as they did.

So he made small talk, discussing nothing much and everything that seemed safe, until a busty blonde sauntered and shimmied and grinned her way past their table. Dean grinned back, reached out and patted Castiel’s arm. “Here’s one. She just gave you a look, man. Wanna go and talk to her?” he asked with a suggestive raise of his eyebrows.

Castiel tilted his head and peered at the busty blonde. She was attractive, he supposed, and certainly something of Dean’s type. That thought made Castiel frown and read her mind. What Castiel found there made him shake his head. “No, I don’t think so,” he said, looking down at his cranberry juice. “I don’t foresee any attempt at speaking with that young lady going any better than the last time you tried to get me speak with a woman, Dean.”

“I also believe she was worrying about if her stitches will hold during, ah….” He cleared his throat and managed to look terrified and embarrassed at the same time. “Fornication. I think the term is that she’s post op?” 

He of course had very little idea what that meant other than the young lady probably should not be looking for such involved activities. He would rather sit and keep talking about nothing with Dean. Or leave and talk about important things with Dean. As it was, half of his attention was drawn back to Bobby’s house and making sure nothing demonic was sniffing around. He could sense Azrael doing the same, though Azrael seemed distracted.

Dean nearly choked on his sip of beer, twisting around in his seat in a not-so-subtle attempt at getting a second, much more thorough look at the blonde as she walked away. He was wide-eyed with disbelief when he turned back towards Castiel. “Oh, hell no. Jesus. God. Fuck, where the hell has my luck gone?” he pondered in a daze, eyes fixed on Cas’ hand loosely wrapped around his glass of furiously burgundy cranberry juice.

He had a few seconds’ worth of hilarity in his mind; where the hell had Castiel been in Ohio, when he’d managed to land the hottest redhead he’d ever seen only to discover later that she had bits where no bits should be. That had been an offer he’d balked on, because he could, given enough incentive, get on board with dick. But dick masquerading as not-dick, well… That was different. It was cheating a bit, he felt. Like getting ready to bite into warm, sweet pie only to discover that the cook had led you on and you had a mouthful of meat and potatoes and crispy crust in your mouth.

Because he could deal with either, up to a point. But both? That was something that Dean Winchester couldn’t cope with. So he frowned at Castiel, trying to hide a faint blush at having misjudged the girl. She was still smoking hot, though, and Dean quietly cursed his ridiculously bipolar dick. “What’s up with you and chicks, anyway? I mean… Jimmy got married and all. You’d think you’d be in your element charming the ladies. You said so yourself; you’ve been around since before we humans showed up. That, right there,” he said, gesturing vaguely but trying to avoid getting the blonde’s attention, “is what I call patience.”

Pointedly, he tried to ignore the slight anxious butterflies that the conversation seemed to be raising in his gut, hoping to hell that Cas wouldn’t pick up on his nervous behaviour. Because while it was all fun to tease the angel about watching porn in public and try to wheedle him into paying for sex, all of that went somewhat haywire when Dean’s brain superimposed the images with his memories of Arizona. Freakin’ Arizona was starting to damn well get on his nerves. He coughed and drained the rest of his beer without much enthusiasm.

Castiel cleared his throat and took a sip of his cranberry juice. “Jimmy met his wife long before I needed a vessel," he said, looking up at Dean with earnest blue eyes. “And it’s…frowned upon for angels to fornicate… Not against the rules but… generally frowned on.” He looked down at his hands in embarrassment.

“And I only have vague memories of Jimmy’s; when I died and came back… Jimmy had moved on.” It was strange to say that out loud. To admit his vessel was empty of its human soul and was more or less his alone now. 

“Not to mention that I’m not human, Dean, I could accidentally hurt any partner I might find.” He shrugged slightly and looked out over the bar. That had been part of the reason why he’d fled the night before, because he didn’t want to forget himself and hurt Dean. The fact that he had wanted it—whatever it was—so bad he could taste it had scared him, because of that whole desire thing, but hurting Dean scared him too.

He knew Dean could handle himself and would probably mock him for worrying. But the fact of the matter was Dean was only human, and that meant he had to be careful with him. 'Kid's gloves', as Dean would put it. But he would not have Dean’s blood on his hands again.

"Oh," Dean said dumbly, blinking at Castiel as the angel explained. There was something that might have been close to a flush on his cheeks, and on anyone else Dean wouldn't even have noticed. But to see Castiel flustered, eyes downcast as he continued—or forced himself to continue, Dean wasn't too clear on the difference there—sort of really brought home the fact that he was discussing something just a bit 'taboo'.

And he was discovering that he liked flustering Castiel; it was only the next logical step, really. Show him around, explain about funny expressions and double-entendres, watch a hint of a smile form on Cas' face upon trying food. It was all leading to this. Dean figured he should've known it'd be inevitable; this was the sort of thought he wouldn't shake in a few days. 

"Are we talking... You know... 'You won't need these wings anymore' frowned upon or just... Relatives giving you the evil eye and your big bro looking a bit disappointed, here?" he finally asked, raising his empty beer bottle and shaking it briefly before catching the barkeep's eye. "'Cause neither Gabriel nor Balthazar ever seemed like the most righteous types ever. I mean, pretty sure Gabe had been, you know." He grinned. "Around a bit. Well, a lot, probably."

"I swear you got the strangest family, man," he finally added, before clicking his newly acquired beer bottle—he managed a small nod of thanks at the barkeep—on the edge of Castiel's glass of cranberry juice. And, really, Cas himself had always struck him as a bit weird; few of the other angels they'd met were quite as quirky, or as apparently unused to riding around humans, as Cas. It made Dean grin stupidly into his beer, eyes crinkling a bit in mirth.

Only he and Sam would end up with the upstairs resident geek as a sort of guardian angel. He had to admit things would have been vastly different—and probably unpleasant as hell—if it had been someone like Uriel who'd reached him first. They'd all be dead, for one thing; Lucifer and Michael would have gotten their apocalypse and they'd never have survived long enough to see it anyway, because God only knew how many times Cas had saved his and Sammy's asses.

"And, hey, they sell stuff that could help, you know, level the playing field," Dean continued, because he'd just had a mental image and it was too glorious not to share, just to tease Castiel a bit further. "Handcuffs and other things. Not that I'm... speaking from experience here, of course." Lies. Lies and lies and slander, he thought, still grinning.

Castiel cleared his throat and looked down again. “More the frowning sort of thing rather than removal of wings,” he said softly, sipping his juice. “But it’s still not… comfortable. Balthazar is just an angel… and I was something… more.” 

He’d never been one for interacting with the rest of the host much or humans before hell. He’d always been the one to watch the world and his siblings, not touch. He hadn’t walked the earth since before Lucifer fell. Azrael, on the other hand, every disaster or war was on earth doing his job. He was happy he’d volunteered to save Dean from hell. Because he was glad he knew this crazy, broken man that was closer to him than any of his brothers had ever been.

“I don’t think handcuffs will do much, Dean,” he said, frowning. “Unless lights flashing and glass breaking is normal when two humans couple. Is that normal for humans, Dean?” he asked, and he knew it wasn’t but he found he wanted to see Dean’s expression when he tried to answer the question.

Something more. Once again Dean was reminded of just how much Cas had given up to get him out of the pit; like the angel's unerring faith in him it was a little debilitating, as though Dean knew he could never live up to expectations of that magnitude, never actually repay him for what he'd done, what he'd given of himself. It wasn't a totally uncomfortable feeling, because he was fairly sure that Cas wasn't expecting anything out of him except to simply survive and do his freakin' best to ensure humanity survived whatever disaster life would throw at them next.

It was still, strangely, intimidating. Dean's thoughts might have spiralled further into that weird place he'd visited when he'd thought to simply give up and say yes to that bastard Michael if Castiel hadn't continued talking. Dean almost choked on his swallow of beer and for a few seconds his vision seemed to black out.

Because his mind's eye provided him, in absurd, clear detail, with a brief flash of a mental image; Castiel, half naked with his shirt nearly hanging off of him—for some reason Dean's brain let him keep the tie, and he didn't wonder too deeply on why—arching back against Dean and writhing in his lap like a snake on electrical acid, a look of utter bliss and pleasure etched across his features as sparks and exploding lights happened behind him.

Not. Good. Dean shook his head, coughed and scowled, at once very aware of a faint blush rising to his cheeks and furiously grateful they'd chosen to sit at a table instead of at the bar; at least this way he could hide the fact that he was suddenly extremely, furiously hard in his jeans. He managed another swallow of beer to clear his throat before answering. His hand was shaking.

"Yeah, um, no. Never encountered it, in any case. Pretty sure that'd put a bit of a damper on things, I guess," he muttered. And again, lies, lies, lies; he hadn't encountered it, of course, but now that his mind had latched onto the thought, he really wanted to. He had a sudden sinking feeling that Castiel was actually toying with him now. "Pizza man didn't explode the lights, remember, Cas?" he added anyway, gesturing with his beer because, dammit, he had to keep his hands busy or they'd reach for the lapels of Cas' freaking trench coat, right here in this sleazy bar, regardless of who was around.

“That was a video, Dean. How am I supposed to know if it was realistic or not?” he asked, blinking at Dean with wide blue eyes. He could sense something lurking in Dean’s mind and had to fight the urge to reach out and touch it. He very much remembered some of the things he’d seen happening in the pornography and wanted to experience them himself.

He sipped his juice and peered at Dean. “I expect Bobby and Sam are done making copies of Azrael’s book and trying to find ways around angelic censoring,” he said with a small smile. “We should probably get back so I can pretend that I didn’t leave them alone with it this long knowing full well what they’d do with it.” 

He knew that nothing could get around Azrael’s blocking unless it was another Archangel or something Demonic. But he didn’t see the harm in letting them try; it was just easier that way, and if they got around it he would tell Azrael and deal with the copies.

"Oh, so you're pretending now?" Dean answered, forcing himself to meet Castiel's eyes. That gaze hit him full force in the gut but he rallied magnificently, chugging down the rest of his beer to hide a slight intake of breath. "You're hanging around us monkeys too much, I think." There was no malice in his voice, though, and he was secretly pleased that he could now exchange barbs with Cas without the angel going full-on pigeon head tilt and uncomprehending stare on his ass. 

There was that, at least, though it made his life about twenty times more difficult; he was already regretting his decision to invite Castiel along. It was fun, yes, and normally he would have enjoyed the company. He blamed his current mad tension on the fact that he hadn't gotten laid in forever. Cas was not getting under his skin; the implications of that were just too uncomfortable to think about, he decided as he plonked his drained beer back onto the table and slowly got up.

He feigned a slow, languid stretch—for the chicks, of course, and hey, Jailbait was staring his way; not, and this was important, to try and draw the angel's shockingly blue eyes back towards him—and clapped Cas on the shoulder. "Fine then, spoilsport. We can head back empty-handed. But Sam'll be surprised to see us so damn soon, I'm telling you, man; my reputation might never recover."

He grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and sent Castiel an answering smile, quickly stuffing his arms into well-worn cotton sleeves. At least his hard-on was semi-manageable now, and not quite obvious enough to threaten the seams of his jeans. "You want to fly your feathery ass up over there in advance, see what they got? I think I'd like to make a pitstop at the pizza place nearby, get us all something to munch on while we discuss... Well, whatever the hell it is the Nerd Team has discovered while we were gone," he drawled, winking half-heartedly at Jailbait while her two surrogate brothers sent him dirty looks.

Castiel tilted his head at Dean. “Alright, I will meet you back at Bobby’s place,” he said and finished off his juice. “If you need me before then, just call.” He stood and grasped Dean’s shoulder and squeezed it. He let go of Dean’s shoulder and vanished straight from the bar.

If any of the humans in the room noticed he was gone they’d remember he’d walked out or something. Without a bit of mojo from him to suggest anything. The human brain did that all for him; a handy thing that he relied on more often than not. 

He took himself back to Bobby’s place and made sure to pop in with his back to both Sam and Bobby so any papers that they shouldn’t have could be shuffled away. “I assume you’re done with Azrael’s book,” he said, turning slightly once he was sure that there was nothing questionable for him to see.

Dean barely had time to nod before a warm, very solid hand landed on his shoulder. He sent Cas a forced thumbs-up and blinked and the angel was gone. Something fluttered weirdly in his chest at that but, amazingly, everyone in the dimly lit room seemed content to continue on with their business. Jailbait shot him a confused look, pretty blond head tilted slightly, but that was about the extent of the commotion.

He cursed all sneaky angels everywhere and headed out after dropping a few crumpled dollar bills on the table. God knew, he didn't want to deal with this angelic pissing contest bullshit—he'd already had enough to last him a lifetime—but at least the grunt of the bookworm research would, hopefully, already be done by the time he managed to get his ass back to Bobby's. So he got to his car and headed for the pizza place, jamming a random tape into the stereo and drumming his fingers to Zeppelin as he went.

He'd get something dripping with fat and cheese and bits of unnamed sausage meat and extra pepperoni, just to piss Sammy off.

Sam had been examining a copy that Bobby had made of one of the pages—flipped, mirrored like da Vinci's writings, in the hopes that this could give them some clue as to how to reverse the censor-spell—when he heard the brief thump and flutter that both he and Dean had come to associate with angels. He raised his head and almost choked, shuffling the papers under his laptop and notes with a squeaking, totally inappropriate sound he was happy Dean wasn't there to hear.

"Hey, Cas," he muttered, pushing the last bit of copy paper out of sight and pointing at the book. "Yeah, I guess we're pretty much done. We... haven't found much. This," he turned his laptop around and angled it upwards so Castiel could see, "seems to be our best bet at containing one of these fallen angels. But we got nothing on how to actually find one."

A replica of one of the illustrations in the book was displayed on screen; sadly, there hadn't been much in the way of instructions. It seemed the author, whoever they had been, had assumed extensive prior knowledge of rituals and theology. Which Sam had in spades of course; he just wasn't certain he wanted to rush into things without getting, as it were, an expert's approval.

Sam sent a worried look at Bobby and hoped to hell the other man wouldn't mention the copies, even though Cas' arrival had seemed suspiciously well-timed. He certainly knew the angel had a habit of appearing right behind people. Or, at least, right behind Dean, whatever that suggested.

Castiel moved to look at the sigil on Sam’s laptop. “I’ll see what I can find out about their names. With the proper name you can summon them,” he said, picking up the book. “I need to get this back to Azrael before he decides you’ve made copies of it or something,” he added with a slight smile as he took the book and vanished with it.

Bobby shook his head. “How much do you want to bet he knew exactly what we were doing?” he asked once the angel was gone. “I did find something though, this is all in enochian and reversed like da Vinci did.” He held out a sheet of paper to Sam. 

“It’s about how to bind angels,” he continued, frowning. “All you need is a feather, human blood and a handful of common herbs. It’s scary how easy it is to bind one of the sons of bitches. The hardest part is getting one of their feathers. I can understand why they were so paranoid about giving us this stuff.”

"Huh," Sam grunted as he took the paper from Bobby's hand. This shouldn't have surprised him; both he and Dean had always known that every feature creature out there had a weak spot, an achilles' heel, a glaring, obvious, exploitable flaw. He'd never thought that an angel's feathers would fall in that category, mostly because he'd never even seen an angel's wings before a few days ago. "I wonder if Dean knows—…”

He was interrupted by the sound of the door flying open and Dean's noisy shuffling into the cabin. Happily, Dean was carrying two massive pizza boxes. Sam quirked an eyebrow.

"Figured you wouldn't have come back with Cas," he said.

"Yeah, well, fuck you, I like my bowels normal and functioning correctly, thank you," Dean answered.

"Dude, gross."

"You brought it up." 

Balancing the pizza boxes in one hand and the six-pack of fancy imported lager Cas had so generously donated earlier, Dean made his way to the couch and sank gratefully into it, setting the boxes down on the table and flicking the top one open before grabbing a slice. He leaned back and stared at Bobby.

"I heard binding. Tell me we know how to net ourselves some fallen birds?" he said around a mouthful of dripping, meaty pizza.

Sam scrunched his nose at the pizza and reached for a beer instead. "We do. Cas has gone on ahead; he says he can dig up one of these angels' 'true names' so we can find them and use the ritual to contain and bind them." 

Dean frowned. "What's the catch?"

"There is no catch. Well," Sam hesitated. "I guess there is one catch. You need one of the angel's actual feathers to bind them."

Dean looked at his brother as though he'd grown wings himself. "Dude. Are you even aware how unlikely that is? In the—how long's it been now?—three or four years we've known Cas, eaten with Cas, taken Cas to brothels and bars and all that, have you ever seen a single feather come tumbling out of his ass?"

There was an awkward pause. "You took Cas to a brothel?"

Dean blinked, reached for a beer, frowned. "No I didn't."

"But you just said..."

"Forget what I said, man, what I'm saying now is we're not just gonna happen onto an angel's feathers. I mean, it's not like they shower and leave the freakin' things all over to clog the drain, you know?" Dean snapped, digging his shoulders into the couch a bit unhappily.

“We got that and more. It would have been nice to get to keep it for a little while longer,” the older hunter said with a sigh. “But I’m pretty sure our winged friend knew exactly what we were going to do with it and let us do it. He gave us something that could let us hurt him and his brothers and basically gift wrapped it.”

Bobby snorted. “There’s probably a spell somewhere in here to force their wings out, and the sigil we have will pin them down; if nothing else we can kill them,” he said with a shrug as he picked up the copies they’d made and stacked them into a neat pile. “I’m going to go make about a dozen copies of these and hide them around town just in case.”

He wiggled the papers slightly and headed out of the house with them. He had a dozen rat holes within an hour of his home that were demon proof and he was going to make them angel proof soon. It didn’t hurt to make things safe. 

A few hours later, Castiel popped into the living to be sitting next to Dean with another six pack of imported beer which he leaned forward and placed next to the other one. He smiled slightly at the empty bottles and folded his hands in his lap. “I have good news and I have…unpleasant news,” he said, looking at Dean and Sam in turn. 

“I believe there is a custom to ask which you’d like first?” he asked, tilting his head to the side curiously.

Both Dean and Sam nodded almost simultaneously when Bobby grabbed the copies and walked out. Dean knew that this was needed, that they couldn't trust anyone outside of themselves—and Cas, though he wasn't sure about Sam's views on this—but still he couldn't help feeling just a twinge apprehensive about going behind an angel's back. Especially when it seemed they'd gotten away with it; that sort of shit had come back to haunt them in the past.

He shot Sam a worried look once the door closed behind Bobby but got only a shrug in return, so he busied himself with pizza and beer until he was too full to eat more and just hovering on the edge of buzzed. Sam, after about half an hour, finally relented about the pizza and scarfed down four slices.

Force of habit allowed Dean to bite back on the surprised grunt and flighty wince when he almost felt the angel land at his side. It wasn't an actual landing—always too freaking quick to see—but he heard the thump-rustling of feathers and felt the couch shift in a lurching wave that suggested that a lot more than a few hundred-and-something pounds of angel had just settled daintily into the seat next to him.

Which was of course exactly what Cas looked like now, ever the prim, proper picture of steadfast angelic grace. Except maybe for the very welcome addition of another six-pack of lovely imported lager. Dean grinned, turned towards Castiel and almost nodded before the angel wiped the smile off his face by speaking.

"It's always the bad news first, Cas. Because then, at least, you can cheer yourself up with the good news," he said. 

Sam, sitting in the plush chair at his side, frowned. "I actually prefer the good news first," he grumbled.

"Tough luck, ginormo, I'm calling this one. What's the bad news, Cas?" Dean drawled back, sitting up and away from the too-soft confines of Bobby's couch and scooting his ass closer to the edge of his seat until he felt more or less ready to face whatever the hell was going to come next.

“Azrael has decided he’s going to look into things before he will share any names with me,” Castiel said with a look of consternation. “I do remember some of the names. That isn’t the good news; Azrael can chase the fallen if he wants, Raphael is going to be chasing them as well so that goose chase will at the very least distract them both.” 

He leaned forward a bit and tilted his head. “I think as long as Raphael is after the fallen we should leave them alone for the time being. I know you don’t like that, but for the moment the Fallen are more concerned with demons and taking over hell and Raphael is after them… it’ll allow for breathing room in the civil war in heaven and clean up the vast majority of the demons crawling around on the planet.” He frowned and looked at his hands.

“The good news is I know of a source that can give us the answers we need. There is unfortunately a catch,” he said, reaching out and taking one of the beers himself. “Something else you will not like.”

Dean nodded, leaning forward to rest his weight onto his knees, tilting his head a bit at Castiel. "Okay, that bad news wasn't all that bad. I think... you've got a sort of skewed view of good and bad news, Cas." He shot a surreptitious look at Sam, who raised his eyebrows at him. "I dunno about you two, but I'm a-okay with letting your bros chase each other for the time being." He didn't add that he felt like running around fixing Heaven's mistakes and trying to play mediator in the world's most absurd family pissing contest over and over again was a damned chore. One he was happy to ignore for the time being.

"I don't know, Dean. We could be going after some headway here. If we can manage to locate the fallen first, we wouldn't have to rely on Azrael," Sam suggested, sitting a bit tense in his seat.

"We haven't got any leads, man. We got nothing. Plus, somebody else will be on demon cleanup, for once; can't argue with that one." Dean turned back towards Castiel, a question clearly written on his earnest face. He eyed Castiel's hand as the angel reached for a beer. He debated for a few seconds, frowned and saw, in his mind's eye, the Castiel he could never come to recognize as the same creature that was now sitting stiffly in Bobby's living room, the one he'd encountered in that dreadful future that seemed to have been avoided.

So he reached out and plucked the beer deftly from Castiel's hand with a slight shrug by way of explanation. Sam stared at him but thankfully didn't say anything. He'd shared that particular little nightmarish voyage into a possible future with his brother, so Dean guessed Sammy knew why he couldn't stomach the thought of Cas getting addicted to anything, especially not on his watch. It was probably selfish to think he would happily push the angel to get good and drunk himself, but he didn't like the thought, or sight, of the angel reaching for a beer without any encouragement, not when they were discussing another possible end of the damned world.

It hit a little too close to his memories of that shitty, shitty future for comfort. "You said you had a way for us to get answers? Just spit it out, Cas, I don't like this mysterious crap."

Castiel tilted his head as the beer was pulled out of his hands. He’d been intending on examining the label—the things that humans put on labels fascinated him—but he wasn’t going to mention it. Instead, he amused himself by using a bit of grace to plug the beer bottle so that even after Dean opened it he wouldn’t get any beer out. After all, Castiel hadn’t said it was for him.

“I’m not sure what you know about sphinxes,” Castiel said, looking between them. “But I got word that a pair of them will be close by; if anything in the world will have the information we need, they will. The problem is Dean is probably the only one here that can deal with them safely.”

He didn’t like the idea of bringing Dean before sphinxes because they were notoriously finicky about who they would deal with and either Winchesters' stint in hell could disqualify them. Sam’s taint of demon blood definitely would, and he wasn’t human. That left Dean, the righteous man who went to hell, and Castiel’s friend.

"Sphinxes?" Sam piped up, looking both excited and probably a bit put out that he wouldn't get to go on this trip. "Mythological creature usually depicted as a sort of cross between a lion and a man. They've been around apparently almost since five thousand years ago. Mostly you see them in Egyptian and Greek myths. I didn't think they were," he gestured, frowned, "you know, real."

While Sam spoke Dean leaned close to the table, rested the edge of the beer bottle's cap against the table's edge and gave it a good whack. The cap flew up and nearly over the table with a loud pinging noise he hoped Bobby would ignore; he wasn't getting up for it just now. "Dude. Get out, leave the books, find some tail," he muttered. "It is so disturbing when you go encyclopaedic, man."

Sammy shot him a dark look. "And they're known to guard stuff. Knowledge or places or people, mostly. They're the ones who ask riddles in the stories. If you answer them wrong, they... Well, they probably eat you. That's the lore anyway."

"Ah, fuck," Dean swore, falling back heavily against the couch and tilting the bottle up to his lips to take a drink. His face changed though, because not a damned drop fell into his mouth.

"I'm really not sure Dean is the best person to answer any riddles, Cas," Sam continued, while Dean all but glared at the open bottle in his hand before upending it and shaking it vigorously. Nothing happened.

Sam snorted. "See?"

"Oh shut up, you overgrown hippie," Dean shot back, dropping the bottle onto the table with a faintly accusatory glare at Castiel. "Why me, anyway? Sammy's right, I'm not the most... patient guy when it comes to cryptic mumbo-jumbo. You of all people should know that, Cas." 

"We got the oracle called Google right here, though, Dean. If we could fit you with an earpiece, I could look up answers for you from a distance and stage whisper you the answers," his brother said, pointing to his laptop.

Dean's face lit up. "Yeah. Would, you know, teamwork be okay? It's not cheating if you put effort into it, right?" he asked Castiel.

Castiel returned Dean’s accusatory glare with a small innocent smile. He’d debated on letting the beer flow out and onto Dean’s lap when he upturned it but had wisely decided against it. “They are very real and very rare. There’s only the pair of them in the world anymore.” He shrugged slightly and looked between the brothers. “They prefer arid dry places and tend to leave as soon as they’ve been confronted. So we only have a limited time to find them and get the information from them.”

“I’m not sure if they will react… well to you Sam. They are sensitive to things that are supernatural so they would be able to sense the demon blood inside you. They may see that as a threat or a danger to them and either kill you and flee or just flee. In which case we may not be able to find them again for thousands of years.” The angel looked down at his hands. “And only one person can answer their riddles. Other people in their group can provide hints but not answers.”

“I can’t answer them because I’m not human. So the safest choice is Dean,” he said with a slight shrug. “You can drink your beer now Dean, I promise it’s safe.”

Dean shared an apprehensive look with his brother before finally relenting. He reached forward, grabbed the beer again with a suspicious glance at Cas and happily got a large mouthful of beer this time when he tipped the bottle back. "So, then. Two sphinxes and I'm the guy on the stand."

Sam nodded and sighed. "Guess we can cram, at least. I mean, most of the riddles can be found online; might not be the same questions, but you should get a handle on the style and all. I can print out a batch and we can study. Well, you can study and we can laugh."

"Oh god," Dean groaned, wiping a hand down his face with a deep sigh. "You're staying here," he muttered, peering sideways at Castiel. "If I have to do this, you're suffering with me."

Sam's little study lessons were complete hell; Dean hated the vague, poetic questions from the start and by the time they were finished he had so much flowery language going 'round his head he figured he might be good to write hallmark cards. At some point he might have lost his patience and may or may not have started pelting Sammy with bottle caps. Pretty soon after that though, Sam called it a night and Dean gratefully fled to the guest room upstairs—the one he usually borrowed whenever he slept here at Bobby’s—and collapsed, shoes, shirt, jeans and all, onto the bed.

He knew he had about a snowball's chance in hell of actually answering any of those riddles properly, and if it hadn't been Cas asking he'd probably have crushed this mad idea and suggested they go back to the original plan of shotgun, knife and trying to hook themselves some fallen angel meat. But things were a little different when the person doing the asking had pulled you out of hell and saved your ass more times than you could count. Besides, if it all went pear-shaped, they could still simply shoot the mutant cats, which suited him just fine.

When Dean managed to fall asleep, his dreams were weird as hell, though thankfully not actually of hell. There was a massive, smug cat with a man's mutant arms which kept gesturing like one of those hip-hop kids he couldn't stand. Dream-Sammy appeared—his brother was usually a little weird in dreamland—and got pissed because Dean had forgotten to put in his earpiece, flinging bottle caps at the mutant cat. After that it got a bit confused and Cas showed up only to be caught in the bottle cap crossfire; there was some heroic rescuing there and somehow Cas ended up stark naked and straddling Dean's hips as, he supposed, a form of gratitude. 

Dean stopped caring how weird it was at that point and simply enjoyed the dream.

Castiel stayed down stairs on Bobby’s couch when the boys went up to bed. He closed his eyes and peered into Dean’s dreams. It wasn’t exactly reading his mind but he wanted to be there to chase away any nightmares. He found a rather amusing dream of what he supposed were sphinxes and Dean trying to answer their questions.

It amused him to simply watch unnoticed. When a dream version of him turned up he couldn’t help but smile and keep watching. He was taken aback when the dream him was naked and straddling Dean, and horrified when Dean’s dream version of himself was equally naked. He left Dean’s dreams after that to sit quietly in the dark and try and figure out what the hell he’d just seen.

The fact that he’d been jealous of the dream version of himself was troubling. For more than one reason. He decided he didn’t want to think about that too much and left Bobby’s to clear his head. Or rather he went to perch off the point of the roof and watch the sky until Bobby came home somewhere around dawn.

The older hunter peered up at the angel who was only getting weirder in his books. He stomped into the house and started a pot of coffee before heading upstairs to bang on Dean’s door. “Get up, boy, your angel is being strange again,” he hollered before stomping back downstairs.

This wakeup wasn't exactly the most graceful Dean had ever managed; Bobby's reverberating knocks on the thin wooden door nearly shook the walls and Dean shot straight up from his lazy, full body sprawl, nearly twisting something in his back in his haste to get vertical. Something like a confused snort-grunt left his throat and he blinked hazily a few times before he could process Bobby's words.

"Jesus, when did all this become a goddamned public joke? My angel my ass," he grumbled as he got up. And frowned; of course he'd be sporting a furious morning erection. The details of his dream were vague, but he still held enough few choice memories to grin stupidly for a few seconds—God, when had he started being okay with this?—before getting up. The pack with his clothes was still downstairs, so he shuffled around and half-heartedly made the bed until he was more or less presentable, and no longer straining against his jeans, and made his way down to the kitchen.

"Mornin', Bobby. Cas's always being strange; did you really have to wake me up for this?" he grunted, making a beeline for the coffee machine and digging around the mess on the countertop to extirpate a clean cup.

The oven clock was flashing 5:49 AM. Dean groaned. 

He poured himself enough coffee to nearly spill over the rim and sighed, sipping carefully as he leaned against the counter. Sam wasn't down yet, but he heard shuffling upstairs, then the familiar sound of Bobby's bathroom door and the ever worrying clanging of the pipes as his brother likely got the shower going. He half debated heading back upstairs to shout that Sammy had better not use up all the hot water, but the coffee was warm, bitter and gorgeous against his tongue and he figured a cold shower wouldn't actually do much harm, at this point.

He glanced perfunctorily around the room—Sammy's laptop and the books they'd perused the night before while researching riddles were still lying all over the table where they'd left them, but there was no trace of Castiel—before nodding at Bobby. "Where the hell is he, anyway?"

“Perched on the roof staring up at the sky looking like a lost puppy,” Bobby said, pouring his own mug of coffee. He sipped and gave Dean a long look. “You should go figure out why he’s moping up there before he does something stupid.” 

Bobby hoped that Dean and Castiel would figure out whatever they were to each other and deal with it. He had no patience for dealing with relationship drama and ‘his’ boys. He knew Castiel wouldn’t hurt Dean on purpose but he knew Dean would be terrified of any sort of commitment, and Cas was, well, he was an angel. An angel with little or no knowledge of human interactions.

But he’d seen all the little looks and now all the little gifts and moping from the angel. It was endearing in a roundabout way but a little more than just annoying considering the fact they had another apocalypse on their hands, or as close to one as didn’t matter.

"Perched on the..." Dean repeated over the sound of the shower upstairs. "Perched on the roof? Jesus, I swear, once, I was normal. Normal life, normal problems, normal shit all around," he grumbled without much bite, setting down his coffee cup with an exaggerated sigh. "Tell Sammy if he's finished off the hot water, he's a dead man," he added as a parting shot, just because he could, before making his way outside.

Dean walked over and off the porch, stepping a few yards away from the house before turning and looking up. Sure enough, Cas was up there, sitting blithely on the edge of the roof, looking as incongruous as a disgruntled tax accountant could possibly look perched on a roof on a freakishly early—and rather cold, Dean couldn't help but notice—morning. 

The sun was just getting up though, and it had no freakin' right to bathe this absurdly ridiculous scene in such warm light, especially not with the way it fell on Castiel's face and highlighted something of a lost look; lost puppy, Bobby had said, and it wasn't too far from the reality of this. Something in Dean's chest tightened painfully. He ignored it. 

"Really? You're actually perching, feathers," he called out, turning briefly to survey their surroundings. "Anything out back we should know about or are you just smelling the roses up there?"

Cold morning air drifted as a faint breeze around him and raised goose flesh over Dean's bare arms, giving him the perfect excuse for the slight shiver that ran through him as he stared up at the angel. "Cas? We got coffee going on inside, man. I'm gonna go shower as soon as Sammy's done primping and then we can get to finding those two cats you want us to interrogate," he offered uncertainly, shoving his freezing hands deep into the pockets of his jeans.

Castiel looked down at Dean and tilted his head to the side curiously. The sun was bathing Dean in warm golden light. It reminded him of the righteous glow Dean’s soul had had in hell. Even broken as he had been, his soul had been bright and untainted. It would figure that such an impudent and stubborn man would be able to cause an angel to fall. 

It was moments like this he wished he’d stayed fallen. So he could enjoy the jumbled, confused feelings he was having instead of trying to compartmentalize them and pretend they didn’t exist. He debated briefly on asking Dean to ask for the location of God from the sphinxes. If anything could give it they could, but that would be selfish of him to ask, considering God had been very clear about his lack of desire to return.

He shook his head to clear it of that train of thought and smiled slightly at the new nickname then pushed himself off the edge of the roof to drop down and land next to Dean. “I already know where they are, Dean,” he said, standing close to Dean. He wanted to wrap his wings around Dean to warm him up.

He didn’t though; he just stood within Dean’s normal range of ‘personal’ space. “I was just contemplating the sky,” he said with a slight shrug. “You do know I won’t let the sphinxes kill you, yes? And the riddles will not be that complex. I can help you with those, I just can’t give you the answers.”

"Showoff," Dean muttered as Castiel simply jumped off the damned roof, landing perfectly upright from a fall that would probably have sent both of Dean's knees ricocheting straight into his face. And of course Cas approached him until he was standing very nearly straight up against him; despite the cold and his own shivering, he felt something of the warmth from his dream—and, holy fuck, Arizona, all over again—course up from his gut as a mad flutter of want.

There wasn't much for it, now. He was screwed, couldn't blame this on booze or just a simple need to fuck around anymore. He'd had enough one nighters to know that he didn't go all weak-kneed simply because he was standing close to someone. Fessing up, even to himself, was goddamned annoying though, so by the time the angel had finished speaking—and, really, that rough gravel voice was doing nothing to help him right now—he was frowning.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I'll get riddles from the cats and hints from you. Still think it's a really stupid plan, Cas, but I'm game to give it a shot," he grumbled, hands still stuffed into his pockets. If he took them out now he was liable to do something stupid with them, like possibly try and bury his fingers underneath that damned trench coat.

"We got a plan B, at least? Those things can be killed, right? You said they were the only two left, so... Stands to reason the others expired along the way. Because I'm telling you, this might not go down the way you think it will." Dean glanced up at the house; Sammy was waving in the window, stuffing a muffin into his mouth. 

He managed to force one hand out of his pocket and gestured with a lazy thumbs up. "Give me fifteen? If I have to hear any more of Sammy's freakin' romantic riddle crap I'm going to puke. We can leave as soon as you want once I've gotten some food in me."


	6. Sphinxes and Separate Rooms

Castiel frowned slightly. “I would rather we not cause the total extinction of a species, if it comes down to violence I will simply, as you put it, zap us away. The sphinxes will not be able to follow and they will simply move on,” he said, reaching up to pat Dean’s shoulder.

“So that will be our plan B. I’m not even entirely sure how they’re killed.” Castiel was lying about that last part. The scary thing about Sphinxes was how easily they died. Old age and sickness didn’t kill them, but mundane weapons could destroy them just easily as they could kill a human. If not easier. 

The Sphinxes guarded things that not even Castiel wanted to know about or handle. They were needed in the world. “Go get your shower, Dean; I’ll be ready to go when you want to.” 

He stayed where he was until Dean and Sam were ready to go. Dean and Sam switched off driving for the first half of the trip, spending the night in a motel that was unremarkable. They drove into the evening the next day to reach Badwater Basin. 

“Sam, it’s probably best if you stay here,” Castiel said from his seat in the back of the Impala. “Or at least stay back.”

Sam pulled a surly face, twisting a bit in his seat to nod at Castiel grudgingly before sending Dean a look he was coming to think of as ‘bitchy-and-guilty’; a sort of lingering remorse at what he’d done combined with frustration that the world kept reminding him about it. Dean snorted, glanced up and saw the sign pointing to the right that announced the short dirt track up ahead that would take them to the basin. 

“You can keep watch from the car, Sammy. If the shit hits the fan, like Cas has said, we’ll just pop back here and leave,” he said, navigating past a bend in the tiny road.

“Fine.”

Ahead of them the valley came into view, and in the dim light that was halfway between orange sky and dark hills, Dean had to admit it was a pretty damned impressive sight. The sand flats stretched out miles and miles in every direction, reflecting light in a strange way—not at all like sand—and peppered here and there with small ponds. All in all, exactly the sort of place he’d expect to find a magical ancient talking cat, really.

“Well, fuck me, that’s… something else,” he breathed as he parked the car and got out. The door slam reverberated strangely in the stillness. Happily, tourist hour was well and truly over; there was a small shack near a very shoddy looking dock that led a few hundred feet over the basin and a couple of parked cars, but the air felt dead and the place seemed pretty much deserted. With a bit of luck, they wouldn’t be disturbed.

Sammy’s voice broke through the strange, oppressive silence. “Remember, Dean, answer’s almost never ‘a man’.”

Dean rolled his eyes at his brother. “I only answered that once, dude, let it go,” he griped, walking around to the back of the car and opening the trunk. He wasn’t sure what he should bring or even if he should bring anything, so he settled for his usual .45, which he stuffed in the back of his pants, and Ruby’s knife. It was more or less Sam’s knife now, but they both had many knives and, even if he hated the dead bitch, it was just simpler this way.

He shut the trunk before turning back towards Castiel. “So. Where to, oh fearless hints master?”

Castiel tilted his head at Dean then decided he didn’t care to try and figure out what Dean meant. With a thought, he got out of the car and was standing next to Dean. “Follow me, Dean,” he said and headed out over the salt flats. 

They walked for about half an hour before Castiel reached out and stopped Dean from walking, right in time too. Because there was a gust of wind and two massive shadowy forms raised out of the salt in front of them both. They were about the size of a large horse with glowing flat white eyes. One was larger than the other with a mane of dark hair done in a style more suited to a pharaoh in Egypt, complete with wrapped beard. Its face was vaguely humanoid with more cat-like features. 

The second was smaller and had wings. Its hair was also dark and in thousands of tiny braids. This one’s face was more humanoid with the naked chest of a woman. They twisted around each other for a moment, all dark shadows and sand toned skin. 

“It’s the Righteous Man,” the male intoned as if it was some sort of great prophecy. 

“The Dean Winchester,” the female replied, tilting her head and looking at Castiel. “And one of the Bright Ones. We do not deal with your sort, little angel.” Her wings spread threateningly. “But that would be why you brought the Righteous Man here, is it not?”

“Tell us, Righteous man. Do you have the guts to answer our riddles three?” the male murmured, sitting down on the salt and sand, looking down at Dean. The female looked at the male then sat down as well.

“If he can then he can answer us this. One of us guards all things treasure and dangerous.”

“But the other guards all that is knowledge and wisdom. Which of us is the guardian of the more dangerous things?”

Dean almost gasped as Castiel slapped a hand against his chest; it felt pretty much like walking straight into a steel girder and he nearly had time to open his mouth to protest when the sand and salt rose up in front of him. Something like a cross between a bad fantasy movie and an old episode of Star Trek eventually materialized. Two of them, in fact, and for a few mad seconds he almost wished Sam had come with them just so he could see his brother’s awestruck face.

This was the sort of mythological shit Sammy loved. Unfortunately, they were both just a sort of weird hybrid of Disney talking-mutants and supernatural critter to Dean, so when they started speaking—already in rhyme and twisting words, and there hadn’t even been a riddle issued yet—he couldn’t help but groan.

“Son of a—… Okay.” He shot a helpless look at Castiel for a moment, then sighed, trying to decide which of the sphinxes was supposed to guard the ‘dangerous treasure’. His first instinct was to say ‘the big one’, the male, because clearly that made more sense and he was pretty sure that females, generally, were more associated with knowledge and wisdom. Even though he’d met a couple of mighty firecrackers in his life.

And then he frowned, his internal debate taking him elsewhere. Because, ha, he wasn’t stupid, he figured that the easy, expected answer was probably bullshit, and surely there was a sort of lesson in humility in admitting that probably the female was the guardian of the dangerous stuff, even though she was smaller. And the male had spoken first, whatever that might mean.

His thoughts veered back on themselves, though, because then he realized that he might be expected to have figured that out and so then the answer would be the male and he was back on square one. Already frustrated after thirty seconds, he briefly entertained the notion of answering ‘a man’ just to spite the universe.

Finally he crossed his arms and decided he might as well just try to bullshit his way out of it, because the question made no fucking sense. “I guess… the one who guards the—Oh. Oh. God, I hate these.” He rolled his eyes when he realized how this was going to go down and what the question actually meant. “Did I tell you I hate these riddles?” he asked Castiel, glancing at the angel briefly. “Because I do. The one who guards wisdom and knowledge is more dangerous, whichever one of you that is,” he finally grunted, somewhat peeved he hadn’t caught on right away.

And added, “I’m stuck in friggin’ Disneyland,” under his breath, which he hoped passed unnoticed.

The Sphinxes looked at each other and the male stood to move a short distance away after nodding to Dean. The female chuckled and bowed her head. “Very well, you have answered correctly,” she said, moving to stand directly in front of Dean.

“Three riddles there are. Answer thrice more correctly and the answer you seek will be yours. Hints may be given by your angel there, nothing more.” She ruffled her feathers and bent down to stare into Dean’s eyes. “Understood?” She cocked her head questioningly.

Castiel kept his hand on Dean’s chest for a moment, ready to zap them away. When he answered right he dropped his hand and stood close. The male Sphinx kept a close eye on the angel, clearly knowing that Castiel was there more to save Dean than to help.

The angel kept his hands to himself but he wanted to hold on tight to Dean’s arm just in case. He knew Dean wouldn’t like it and the Sphinxes would be more suspicious of them both. So he kept his hands at his sides.

Dean shot Cas a worried look when the angel clearly hesitated, leaning back and away a few inches from the sphinx’s face as it—she, whatever the hell it was—leaned closer. The face was actually quite beautiful, in a weird, classical painting sort of way, but there was something definitely fishy about its eyes, and, well, the rest of it as well. Boobs, no matter how perky, just didn’t look right on a cut-and-paste animal body.

He nodded. “Yeah, I got it. I answer your little Gollum riddles, nobody dies, you answer our questions, everybody goes home happy,” he said, still unhappy about the whole thing. The male, or rather the male-looking one anyway, was standing aside, but it was clear it was watching them both and even clearer it made Castiel nervous.

So Dean wisely held his tongue and even more wisely didn’t reach either for his gun or Ruby’s knife, though he did fidget a bit. He’d just have to stomach the questions and hope he didn’t mess this up. Considering his track record last night with Sammy’s practice run at the riddles, that was a long shot at best, but he sure as hell was going to try.

“So hit me, then,” he added, gesturing with his hands. “And if you can keep the poetry and rhymes to a minimum, that’d be really swell, thanks.” After a moment, he turned to Cas and shrugged. “I hope you’re freaking ready with those cue cards, man.”

The sphinx made a low sound of amusement, settled her wings more comfortably and regarded Dean from a distance. “Very well,” she said, curling her tail around her forepaws. 

“This thing runs but it cannot walk,  
Sometimes sings but will never talk.  
Lacks arms, but has both hands;  
Lacks a head but has a face.”

Dean raised a hand, a faint frown creasing his forehead, shooting Cas an uncertain grin. “Okay, wait, I… think I got this one,” he said, suddenly grateful for Sammy’s very annoying cramming session the night before. The roundabout poetic shit was still awful, but at least he was pretty sure he could answer this one without help.

One point for humanity, he thought. “It’s a… Well, it’s a clock. Or a watch. You know, or both; that’s really unclear, so I freaking hope you’re not deducing points for that,” he added, waiting for confirmation. Or death, whichever way this went.

The sphinx nodded and smiled. “That was… correct,” she said, the tip of her tail twitching against the salt and sand mixture that was the ground. 

“I have roots that are so deep that nobody sees,  
I grow far taller than any tree,  
Up, and up I go,  
But yet I never grow.  
What am I?”

Castiel returned Dean’s grin with a smile of his own. He was glad Dean had figured out the first riddle himself. He was sure Dean could answer this next one on his own as well if he thought about it. If not there were several decently sized mountains in the distance.

Dean’s near victory dance—he didn’t, in fact, dance, but he was damn well going to gloat as all hell to Sammy later—would’ve been interrupted as soon as the freaking mutant cat-lady started speaking again. When she was done he was frowning again, all but glaring at it, or her, as he ran the riddle over and over through his mind. 

Jesus, this was stupid; there were any number of things that went higher than trees and had what these mad freakish felines could perhaps consider roots. Skyscrapers came to mind first, because, yeah, underground parking and basements and foundations could maybe pass for roots. And hell, on that note, probably even electrical pylons had underground structures to keep them upright.

“Oh, come on,” he muttered, little more than an intake of breath, as he turned towards Cas. Who was ever so slightly smiling at him. Dean frowned and promised himself later retribution; the little bastard was turning smarmy on him, clearly enjoying this. He’d find a way to spring a riddle of his own on the angel at some point. Something dirty and lewd, that Cas, he was sure, would never get right.

And then of course he was grinning stupidly, because, yeah, he could supply his own brand of hint right there. After a few seconds he realized he was staring and coughed, tearing his eyes away to stare behind the angel like he’d been deep in thought the whole while; the strangely beautiful surroundings of the basin stared back, unchanging and completely unhelpful.

He shifted on his feet. “Can I pass this one? I’d like to pass this one, otherwise we could be here a while.” Because he was pretty damned certain ‘skyscraper’ wasn’t it and the mental process of elimination on things-taller-than-trees could take ages. He was already getting sick of this game now, and losing patience fast, mostly because it seemed both of the sphinxes and Cas were watching the ‘poor dumb human’ stumble along like a blind man running in a china shop.

“No passes, only answers, Dean Winchester,” the sphinx said, her voice chiding. She peered down at Dean with wide, glowing white eyes. “You have someone to give you hints,” she reminded him, looking over at Castiel.

Castiel tilted his head and looked over at Dean. “There’s a range of them in the distance, Dean,” he said, gesturing to the mountains in the distance with a slight grin. He was going to have to figure out how to reward Dean for figuring out these riddles, even with hints. 

The sphinxes both seemed to know everything he didn’t want them to about him and the host. That was the thing about sphinxes; they were omnipotent but only after the riddle game was played. It was part of their magic. They knew things but they couldn’t give up the information without the riddles, same with the items they guarded.

That was why they’d all died out. Demons and humans tried to force the information out of them. It wasn’t because they didn’t want to tell what they knew, but because they couldn’t have said anything without the ritual being followed. That was the way their magic worked.

“What?” Dean griped, turning to follow Castiel’s vaguely pointing arm. He got it after a few seconds though, and sighed a loud, exaggerated breath out through his nose. “But that’s complete bull, mountains don’t have roots.” Unless you counted things like rocks and earth and maybe caves. But caves were closer to veins, in Dean’s opinion.

Maybe even closer to whatever passed for a tree’s veins, where the sap flowed, following the damned metaphor all the way. This was exactly why he hated these riddles with a passion; nearly every one of them could have several answers that seemed good enough to him.

“Fine, fine. Okay. Mountains with roots, whatever. Mountains, then,” he muttered, turning back to the smug cat after a slight frown at Cas, who still seemed to be enjoying this way too much. Probably the cryptic language and shitty clues were right up his alley, too. It wasn’t far, after all, from some of the angel’s own mysterious dialog, when he decided to go all heavenly host and divine insight on their collective asses.

Only without the added bonus of intense blue stare and deep, raspy voice, which was definitely not something Dean could afford to think about right now. He grumbled, too low for the sphinx to hopefully catch. “Though I still think skyscrapers could’ve worked.” And yes, he was probably sulking a bit, but he didn’t care, not when he thought of Sammy, sitting comfortable and smug in the Impala, with easy access to all his music and, God, a spare cooler of beer jammed between the front and the back seat.

The sphinx smiled and nodded. “Mountains have roots, deep and strong,” she said, raising a paw to rest it on Dean’s shoulder. “As do other things. The Righteous Man that went to hell must have faith in himself, because others have faith in you. The last riddle then.

“I am just two and two  
I am warm, I am cold,  
I am lawful, unlawful  
A duty, a fault  
I am often sold dear,  
Good for nothing when bought;  
An extraordinary boon,  
and a matter of course,  
and yielding with pleasure  
When taken by force.”

Castiel frowned at the last riddle and narrowed his eyes at the smiling sphinx. Trust them to play games like that. Tricky bastards, as Dean would put it.

“Uh, yeah, thanks, but… Hell wasn’t about rhymes and sing-song, lady,” Dean said, ever so gently stepping away from the sphinx’s reach. Shit, it was like every single freaking supernatural thing out there had issues with personal boundaries these days. He rubbed at his shoulder unconsciously as he listened to the last riddle, forehead creasing into an incremental frown that left him staring in confusion once it was over.

Of course it rhymed, but this one was even more obscure than all the others before. Nothing, absolutely nothing came to mind; he was stuck on the warm and cold, confused about the sold but worthless when bought and had a nagging suspicion that things were delving into the personal a bit. The last few words were particularly worrying, especially with the mention of hell swimming through his mind like some great, big, lurking blackness.

“I… get more than one shout out, right? This isn’t like those TV quiz shows where you can only call for help once and then you’re fucked?” he asked, turning towards Cas, hoping the angel had some idea what this one was about and wishing he was back in college—God, this would have been so much easier then—and had had the opportunity of sneaking a look at the answer sheet before the exam.

“I really don’t see why you can’t answer these, Cas.” He rolled his eyes. “A little help, here, before I just blurt out the first thing that comes to mind?”

The sphinx blinked down at him and the male chuckled in the background, his tail lashing against the ground. The female rolled her shoulders and blinked slowly. “The answer is the action not the word,” she clarified, looking at Dean then Castiel and tilting her head.

The angel frowned deeper; he knew exactly what the sphinxes were about. He didn’t like this because he wanted very badly to simply grab Dean and demonstrate what the answer was to him. “Remember Arizona?” he asked, looking down at the ground and hoping Dean would figure it out and just buck up and go through with it.

The female sphinx shifted her wings with the crisp sound of feathers brushing against feathers and waited for the answer. One or both of the sphinxes had started purring in amusement. Dean was probably going to be pissed and hate the whole thing, or at least pretend to; Castiel wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

Dean had asked Cas for help but it was the damn cat that answered, which didn’t go a long way towards explaining anything. When he finally managed to meet Castiel’s gaze the angel actually avoided looking at him, staring at some point on the ground while he spoke. Dean froze. Of course- he remembered Arizona. He didn’t want to remember Arizona at this particular point in time and was about to say so when he finally realized what this riddle was about.

Mostly. He was pretty sure it had nothing to do with aborted hand jobs. Thankfully, too, because both creatures were now staring intently at him and—fuck, was one of them purring? It sounded halfway like a cross between a dying tractor and a giant cat—just overall looking as pervy as two sphinxes could possibly look, in Dean’s opinion.

He nearly laughed; he knew he should be pissed and probably simply reach for his gun and get this over with, but really, this whole thing had tipped into the obscenely ridiculous the minute they’d gotten out of the damned car. “You gotta be kidding me. Jesus, Cas, I swear… This was your stupid plan,” he grumbled, yet still approached the angel, shaking his head. Yes, it was dumb and completely mad and if Sam were here he’d be pissing himself laughing by now because he’d probably have figured out this riddle right away and would know exactly where this was going.

Regardless, Dean would be lying if he said he hadn’t been itching to do exactly this since the motel. So he closed the distance between himself and Cas, reached out, firmly grabbed the lapels of his trench coat and paused. “We should be charging those kinky fuckers for this,” he mused before leaning in and slightly down to press his lips against Castiel’s, intending to keep this short and sweet because they clearly had an audience.

His resolve to do just that broke exactly three seconds later though, because this was Cas, he’d been wanting this for a while and if before his body had been okay with the idea, now that his mind was starting to finally decide to board the damned train it was nearly impossible not to groan and deepen the kiss. He flicked his tongue against the angel’s lips and forced them open with his own until they parted enough that he could nip lightly at Castiel’s lower lip, his hands now fisted in the trench coat, bunching the material into a rumpled mess.

The sphinxes looked at each other as Dean approached Castiel and tilted their heads near in sync with each other. Castiel had expected—and more than sort of hoped—that Dean would be forward about things and not beat about the bush. That didn’t stop the angel from letting out a surprised noise that he would swear was not a squeak.

Castiel once again didn’t know what to do with his hands. Vaguely, he remembered the whole incident when he kissed the demon. So he reached up and cradled the back of Dean’s head in his hand and kissed him back, flicking his tongue against Dean’s tentatively. There was a suddenly lack of noise that told the angel they were alone and he broke the kiss by stepping back and clearing his throat in embarrassment. 

The sphinxes had left, and right where the female had been sitting was a scroll. “That would be the list of names,” Castiel said, looking at the scroll and not moving more than that single step away from Dean.

Something like a startled hiss almost escaped Dean as he felt Castiel press closer instead of away but it was miraculously swallowed by the kiss, by Cas’ lips against his. His mind was spinning, as it had in Arizona, though at the time he’d blamed it on the booze. It clearly wasn’t that, and he hadn’t imagined either the angel’s taste or that distracting smell of something definitely not human; Dean’s brain grasped for an analogy and came up empty.

When Cas drew back and away about two feet he almost followed, swallowing back a noise that would have completely disgraced him if he’d let it fly. He tried for a fraction of a second to keep Castiel close but the angel just moved against the grip he had on the trench coat as though he hadn’t even noticed Dean’s hands. Once he could finally breathe without being lost in the complete overload of Casness he realized he was standing there like a complete fool and that they were both alone, the two sphinxes having vanished sometime when he was otherwise completely occupied.

And Castiel had spoken and Dean had no idea what he’d just said. He followed the angel’s downward gaze and nodded, his voice annoyingly loud to his own ears and a lot more breathless than it had any right to be. “Yeah, would you look at that. We weren’t eaten and we have a… scroll. Peachy,” he rumbled, tempted to reach out for Castiel again. His shoulder was throbbing, a sort of strange, pulsing ache that brought back images of clawing and clutching in the darkness, and of feathers and wings.

When he no longer felt like his heart was about to burst out of his chest, he coughed. He imagined, briefly, the scene back at the car, Sammy asking how it had gone and Cas answering with his usual deadpan that they had ‘gotten the list of names through a series of riddles and Dean defeated the sphinxes by kissing me’. He was torn, for a moment, between making it totally clear that this sort of stuff wasn’t to be spoken about, ever, especially not in front of Sammy and Bobby, and just shutting up and seeing where all this madness went instead of being an ass about it.

It would be so much easier to be an ass. But he’d been an ass mostly all his life and that, recently, hadn’t been working too well. So he shut up, stepped around Castiel and picked up the scroll before prodding the angel gently in the chest with it. “Here, you hang on to this. If Azrael comes screaming for it with a flaming sword I won’t be much use,” he eventually said before adding, “Bet you Sammy’ll freak out I managed to answer those riddles. I should’ve bet on it.” He grinned, to ease his own tension more than anything else.

Castiel made a little sad sound when Dean stepped around him to pick up the scroll. He took it from him and tucked it in his into his breast pocket. “I doubt Azrael will know about this or will care, and Sam had more faith in you than you had in yourself,” he said softly, looking up at Dean for a long moment. “Dean…”

He cleared his throat and looked down at the ground for a moment then back up at Dean. He licked his lip,s thinking about what he was about to do. He swallowed and just sort of acted on impulse and reached out to pull Dean close and kiss him. He’d noticed Dean’s attempts to keep him close when he’d pulled away and took that as a sign that this was okay.

If it wasn’t, he could pretend it never happened. He’d take his cues from Dean; that seemed the safest thing to do. That and he really didn’t know how to lead this sort of thing.

“Sammy’s an optimist, it’s not his fault,” Dean muttered, still grinning slightly as Cas pocketed the scroll. He was staring again, he knew, because he’d suddenly had a flashback to this morning’s dream which was starting to feel pretty damned familiar—aside from the bottle cap battle—and so he was mostly caught off guard when Castiel’s hand closed into his shirt. His eyes had been following the angel’s lips and the movement of his throat and then he was neatly pulled against that strange heat that felt both human and not, lips pressed against Cas’.

He didn’t stop to wonder what the hell was going on because, dammit, this was Arizona all over again; it was the hint of want he could feel vibrating a bit around the angel, the way his eyes had gone unfocussed for a few seconds before they were kissing, that completely destroyed him. He reached up, grabbed Castiel’s wrist—resisted the impulse to pull hard, because he wasn’t sure Cas’ arm would even give and he didn’t want to end up grunting like a maniac trying to bend a steel girder—and gently tugged downwards until he could push his hand aside and step closer.

Slipping one hand up to curl his fingers into the wild mess that was the angel’s dark hair, he licked his way past Castiel’s lips until he could feel—hell yeah, a faint twinge of electric buzz again, just like before—tongue. His other hand delved blindly past the ever-present tan coat to grab at one surprisingly slim hip and pull, until they were pressed flush against each other and the annoying, throbbing ache of both his cock and his shoulder finally dimmed somewhat.

When he eventually pulled away he didn’t go very far, just leaned back enough that he could stare at Cas without going hopelessly cross-eyed. And groaned, because Castiel’s lips were swollen and flushed and moist and he looked, again, so damned ripe it was almost painful to look at. 

Dean took a long, deep breath. “Okay, what the hell? I mean, why… I… Wait.” Closed his eyes and stepped exactly one step away so he could think, slowly disentangling his hand from Cas’ hair, but keeping the other on his hip. Tried again. “Right, so… You want this.” A statement, clearly not a question. “But you fluttered off. Skipped on me in Arizona, Cas. Why?”

Castiel had to fight the urge make a wanton little sound when Dean pulled away. His hand had settled on Dean’s hip of its own accord and the other hand crept up to grip Dean’s shoulder right on his mark. He found he liked being pressed against Dean like he was. 

He found himself regarding Dean from arms length and licked his lips thoughtfully. “I…because…” He felt his cheeks heat in what he assumed was a blush. “I panicked… I told you that this… is generally frowned upon… and I panicked because I want it.” He cleared his throat and looked up at Dean, embarrassed to admit he’d panicked over desiring something. 

He was truly and royally screwed at this point. Because he wanted something purely for himself, not for the good of the host, and he didn’t care that he shouldn’t want anything for himself. If he managed to defeat Raphael he would probably fall from grace just because of the man standing in front of him.

Dean nodded, the movement interrupted briefly by a twitch of his neck and shoulders when Castiel’s hand snaked upwards and fitted itself right over the brand there. Cas’ fingertips pressed exactly where that hand had apparently gripped—he couldn’t, wouldn’t remember that, especially not right now—and Dean waited until Cas had managed to force the words out.

This was all remarkably familiar; the expressions of dismay, nervous panic and clear embarrassment flitting across Castiel’s face were pretty much an exact mirror of how he’d acted back at the brothel, when Dean had promised not to let him die a hopeless virgin. Back then it’d only been funny, though, somewhat cute, but mostly funny. To see that look directed straight at him was an entirely different thing. Still funny a bit, furiously endearing—and goddamn, it sounded cheesy even in his head but he couldn’t stop the thought—but mostly it made his knees weak.

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t exactly the most patient, then, I guess,” he rumbled, a bit dismayed to realize his fingers simply didn’t want to let go of Castiel’s hip. He tugged at him, just a bit, playfully, and reached up with his free hand to adjust the angel’s tie, which had become hopelessly crooked. It was a bit of a lost cause though, because the shirt underneath was rumpled and partly opened, and the tie just wouldn’t sit straight. Dean chuckled, a brief, tense sound, before glancing down at Castiel’s hand where it rested against his shoulder.

“I’m not… exactly well-versed in this, Cas. I don’t go for men. Usually,” he added as an afterthought. “I mean, you know, chicks, the road, it was always just… easier.” That, and he was lost as all hell, because Cas wasn’t a random stranger in a bar—nor a man, technically—, and if this went all to shit he could easily lose exactly one-third of his entire ‘family’, who were most of them, aside from Sammy, not blood. Sammy, Bobby and Cas. Jeopardizing that was… unthinkable. 

He wanted to ask, so bad, what exactly it was that Castiel wanted. ‘Just sex’ would be the easy answer, the one he was used to. No strings, no expectations, simple and clean, no hurt. It would be the easiest thing. He hated to break his own rules, but there hadn’t even been any sex yet and this already felt different than ‘just sex’. He was flying blind, and leading the blind, to boot.

“Let’s just… see how this goes down? I step on any toes again, you speak up before poofing, deal? I mean, I know you’ve gone a couple thousand years without but… Tease and release, man, it’s an art form, but there’s gotta be release eventually.” He only realized after he’d spoken he wasn’t even sure Cas would grasp any of that. “You want this, I’ll make sure to book separate rooms if we’re on the road with Sammy. If you don’t show up, you’re not allowed to bitch I’m taking lots of showers,” he finally clarified.

He didn’t mention random encounters in bars, didn’t feel the need to; he’d barely even managed a couple of hookups after his little holiday downstairs, and they’d both been pretty bland. He hadn’t tried in months.

Castiel blinked up at Dean, trying to process everything the man was saying. He didn’t understand it all but he wanted whatever it was Dean was offering. So he nodded slightly because he was pretty sure he knew where things were headed and that was something he wanted. “Why would I complain about your increasing hygienic habits?” he asked, cocking his head to the side curiously because he really didn’t understand why that would be something to complain about.

He cleared his throat and, after a brief squeeze to Dean’s shoulder, pulled himself the rest of the way away from him. “We should get back to Sam… and I would not mind letting this follow whatever natural course it might take. I won’t disappear on you again without telling you what’s wrong first, I promise.” 

He would let things take whatever course they would and follow Dean’s lead on things because he simply didn’t know. He really had no other choice but to let Dean lead on this because if he tried to he’d probably mess things up or not do something, or do something wrong and somehow step on one of the many, many careful little lines Dean apparently cultivated around himself.

Dean couldn't help himself; he'd known some of this would go right over Castiel's head, but after their little shower mishap in Arizona, he'd expected that one to be clear, at least. So he laughed, and the tension bled out of him, the last of it chased away by the slight, reassuring pressure at his shoulder as Cas gave it a gentle squeeze.

"We're gonna have to have a few talks, man. A few very important talks," he grumbled good-naturedly. It was just his luck to end up with what he'd have to be honest and call a massive crush on the one angel in creation who'd apparently spent all his time sitting on a cloud and watching the sky instead of going through a sort of eternal bachelor puberty, like that Balthazar fellow had seemed to be.

"And yeah, Sammy's probably getting worried we got our asses mauled by now," he added, missing the contact the very second Castiel stepped back. This was going to be hell; it felt almost as though now that he knew what it was to hover close to that warmth--and really, it wasn't even as though Cas was particularly warm, it was more a sense of energy, of a mind so vast he couldn't imagine it--it was going to be next to impossible to pretend he wasn't drawn to it.

Sammy had always been a bit dense about these things but Dean was pretty sure that Bobby was going to know exactly what was going on. Fuck, that thought wasn't right, like a memory of his parents going at it, only about a million times worse. He didn't even want to imagine how that conversation would go down.

And Castiel looked like he'd definitely had his hand in the cookie jar; Dean couldn't do much about those lips--and didn't really care to, because, well, damn, they were just sinful--but he could at least straighten the rest of him up. So he did; reached out, buttoned up the serious, white shirt but left one undone, adjusted the tie all neat then gave it a light pull to loosen it a bit and finally tilted his head and stared, bemused, at Castiel's hair. Which, he supposed, was probably a bit of a lost cause.

Then he smoothed both hands vaguely down Cas's chest, smoothing the massive wrinkles in the fabric of both shirt and coat and mentally declared this a pass. "Guess that'll do. It's not like you're not always rumpled even at the best of times, Cas," he teased, sending him a slight grin before starting off towards the car. And if Sammy saw something amiss when they got there, well... Fuck it, he'd just have to deal.

Castiel blinked bemusedly at Dean as the man started straightening his clothes. “I could have adjusted it myself, Dean,” he said with a wry smile as he followed Dean back to the impala. “And I am aware of how things work… in a mechanical sense. It’s the cultural details that I’ve no frame of reference to go on.” 

He tried not to dwell on the lingering sensation of Dean’s hands on him as they returned to the car. Because there was nothing he could do about it now and Dean probably would not want Sam knowing about whatever it was they had right away. So he would act just as he had acted before and let things fall as into place naturally.

By the time they returned to the car Castiel looked just like he did before they left. He reached into his jackets to retrieve the list of names, he’d hand it off to Sam so he could look it over as they headed back to the hotel. “This may be of interest to you, Sam,” he said as he got into the back seat and held out the scroll to him.

Dean shrugged, walking in easy silence as they made their way back to the car, mindful of where he stepped. He'd had a close call when they'd left the open space where they'd met the sphinxes which involved a bit of salt crust cracking under his boot and threatening to cover it with inches of sucking, sticky dark mud. "I'm sure you do, Cas," he answered noncommittally, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket as he walked.

If Castiel's previous reaction was anything to go by, Dean figured there was a massive gap somewhere between knowing and experiencing. He was just itching to explore that now, and when they finally reached the car he was still sporting a slight grin which only grew as Cas slid into the backseat.

Dean walked around the car and shuffled into the passenger's seat. Sammy's eyebrows rose nearly to meet his hairline. "Uh, thanks Cas. You're using doors now. That's an improvement," Sammy said as he took the proffered scroll while Dean started the car and the long drive back to their motel.

"Learning new stuff everyday, our Cas," Dean muttered, reaching blindly for a tape under his seat and sticking it in the radio. 

Sammy frowned as the first few notes sounded out in the car. "Asia, really? I thought we'd been over this before."

"I'm in a good mood," Dean answered with a loose shrug.

The drive back was fairly uneventful, Sammy intently focused on the scroll and discussing the angels listed within it with Castiel in excited, somewhat awed tones. Dean spent most of his time smiling and shooting furtive glances in the back view mirror, his attention divided between the road, the songs and Cas in the back seat.

Halfway there he found himself drumming his fingers on the wheel and desecrating a few classic eighties song as he nearly drowned out Zeppelin's lead singer, having long ago switched tapes. Sammy just rolled his eyes in a distantly fond, if slightly annoyed, way and Dean's mood only soared higher. It was madness, but they'd made progress on a wildly dangerous case of rogue angels without anything going terribly wrong, he was going 70 in a 50 zone with Led Zeppelin blasting through the speakers and there was that faint, thrumming buzz of a new... something, whatever it was, running through his veins.

If he stopped and tried analyzing the feeling he would probably panic, so, for the moment, he didn't, simply enjoyed the rising euphoria for what it was, enjoyed the break in his gloom-and-doom life and the confused smile on his brother's face.

When they finally did reach the motel Dean got out of the car with a quick, muttered 'be right back' and detoured by the front desk, booking a second room as an impulse. He made his way back to the car with some trepidation and opened the trunk, dumping the knife back into it but keeping the gun, by force of habit, before approaching his brother and flinging him the keys to the new room. 

"Get your stuff, Sammy, I'm feeling generous. I'm exhausted and I'm gonna snore up a storm, so I got you a second room. Holler if you need anything," he said.

Sam just stared at him, then at the keys he'd easily caught, and finally back at him. "Really?"

"Don't make me change my mind, man. Go."

His brother shrugged, shot him a suspicious look then went inside their first room to gather his pack and laptop. Dean tried his very best not to glance at Castiel, waiting patiently by the door until Sammy was walking, his own duffel bag slung over his shoulder, to his new room, just a few doors down. 

"You sur--"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, just go."

"Jesus, okay... Night, guys," Sam answered, shouldering his way inside his own room and disappearing.

"Yeah, night, Sammy," Dean shot back, walking inside the motel room and dropping his gun on the nearest available flat surface.

Castiel was happy to discuss the scroll with Sam as Dean drove back to the hotel. He quite liked Sam, the younger Winchester was honest and curious about everything new—to him—in the world. Castiel found that endearing and was always happy to discuss theory with him for it.

Dean's increasingly good mood was entertaining to say the least. Castiel wasn’t sure what Dean was anticipating from him but it was pleasant to see him so cheerful. When Dean went ahead and got another room the angel tilted his head questioningly. But he stood next to Dean while Sam cleared his stuff out. 

“Good night, Sam,” he said before the younger Winchester disappeared into his new room and found himself trailing after Dean into the motel room and looking around it with curious blue eyes. 

He cleared his throat and reached up to rub the back of his neck. It was strange how he felt the tension in his neck and shoulders ease when he did that. Not much, but it was quite pleasant. Now the question was what was Dean thinking of; that thought left him feeling strangely excited and hopeful. He wasn’t sure how to categorize the feeling but it wasn’t unpleasant.

As soon as the door closed behind them both Dean twisted and turned, intending on reaching out for Cas and possibly dragging him to the bed ASAP. It was almost surreal to know that Castiel had followed him inside expecting God knew what; he had no idea what the angel thought they'd be doing and, if he could have his way, right now, he was pretty sure they would make Arizona look like a Saturday afternoon tame special.

But when he turned he was met not with the ripe, wanting Cas but with the uncertain, tense one, the one who'd flashed him a look of such utter terror in the brothel all those months ago that it'd nearly made him change his mind about the whole thing. Even though he'd laughed, because, yeah, that look--that one right there, when Cas cleared his throat and pawed self-consciously at his neck--was both hilarious and ridiculously cute.

He'd never thought in a million years he'd think of an Angel of the friggin' Lord as cute--especially after that first encounter in Illinois because it had been terrifying, he could admit that much--, but that was life for you, Dean supposed. And plans changed all the time. So instead of the massive tug-shove towards the bed and subsequent molesting, Dean settled for something more likely to end well and nearly just as good. He reached out, fingered Castiel's tie for a moment and loosened it a bit, the silk slipping through his fingers as he pulled downwards at the knot.

"Come on, feathers," he said, releasing him to sit down onto the edge of the bed, scooting back until the back of his knees hit the mattress, legs splayed apart. He flopped a hand heavily on the mattress, indicating that Cas should get his ass over here and sit. "I'm not pinning you down again; if you don't like where this is going you can just stand up and walk away instead of flying off."

"And lose the coat, it's nearly nineties degrees even with the AC in here, Cas," he added, shrugging his own jacket off. Happily there could be a shower later on, he figured, and he'd damn well try to persuade Cas to join him, angel mojo clean-up crew notwithstanding. A lukewarm shower in this furnace-blast weather would be a godsend, and a perfect excuse to get the angel out of the tax accountant getup. Which was exhilarating, because Dean had no idea if Cas had ever even bothered to remove it before.

Castiel tilted his head at Dean and blinked. He hadn’t noticed the heat, he never really noticed the temperature around him in fact. It just didn’t affect him the way it would a human. But nevertheless he shrugged off his trench coat and after a long moment of thought he removed his suit jacket as well. He folded them both and tossed them onto the empty bed.

“Feathers, is that going to become another nickname for me?” he asked as he moved to sit next to Dean. “Not that I mind that, or… um, you pinning me down, not that you really had me pinned.” He found himself smiling at Dean teasingly. Dean seemed to forget that Castiel could easily overpower him if he wanted to, though he had no plans to get into a wrestling match with Dean anytime soon. 

Well, maybe not a real wrestling match but something that ended in a tangle of limbs and wandering hands would be… pleasant. He didn’t have a full picture of everything Dean was expecting out of this but what he could guess on he was okay with. “And I already promised that I wouldn’t just vanish on you if I panicked again. I meant that.”

Seeing Cas without the trench coat and the suit jacket was strange; the angel peeled layers as though they were parts of himself and when he finally straightened and walked closer Dean finally realized that the damned trench coat was so oversized for Castiel's frame he might as well have been floating in it. The trench would probably fit Sammy or him and Dean had a strange, brief moment of double-vision going on for a few seconds as Castiel sat.

He saw both the angel and the man, broken and beaten down and drowning in drugs and hippie music and group sex, but when he blinked it was still his Cas' face staring back at him, not the other one, the painfully scary one with deadened eyes and cynical tongue.

"I like 'feathers', smartass," he replied, a bit dismayed to find that his invitation for Cas to plonk down in front of him on the bed had apparently gone totally unnoticed. "And I know you won't vanish, but I still want you to sit here," He tapped the expanse of mattress between his thighs again, "and not all the way over there."

Dean grinned, twisted a bit and leaned closer, dragging one hand up along Castiel's back and shoulders until he could splay his fingers along the nape of his neck. The tie was already loosened so he worked it the rest of the way off, letting it fall onto the bed before kneading his fingers against what he could reach of Cas' upper shoulders beyond the loosely buttoned shirt. He played a slow, pulsing touch there then dragged blunt fingernails lightly up the back of Castiel's neck and past his hairline.

"Because I'm planning the mother of all back and shoulder massages and I can't do it right if you're so damned far away." As he spoke he slid his hand back down and over the slight curve of Castiel's neck, dipping to his front to ghost his palm downwards, fingers brushing against the sharp jut of a collarbone. One arm twisted slightly around Castiel's shoulders, Dean leaned closer and finally allowed himself a taste--like he had in Arizona--of the angel's throat, nibbling a slow path up the side of his neck to his ear, just to see if he'd get a response.

His hand blindly slipped lower until he found the top button of that serious, all-work-and-no-play business shirt, deftly popping it open then moving onto the second one. As soon as he had enough space to do so he pushed the cloth aside a bit and returned his hand to Castiel's shoulder, kneading with his fingers and stroking with his thumb. He hadn't even been aware of moving it but his other hand had snaked its way over to Castiel's thigh, mirroring the kneading of his shoulder through the thin linen pants.

“I never said I didn’t like it, Dean,” Castiel said lowly, watching as his tie was worked off and bowing his head forward as Dean kneaded his shoulders. He couldn’t have stopped the low sound of enjoyment at the touch if he’d wanted to. He tipped his head to the side as Dean worked his mouth against his throat and let out a little shuddering groan.

His skin was tingling from the kneading and stroking touches, even through the thin cotton of his dress shirt. “Alright, I understand your reasoning now,” he murmured, turning his head to look into Dean’s eyes and found himself more lined up for a kiss than to look. So he closed the distance and pressed his lips to Dean’s. 

It was meant to be a sort of innocent closed mouth kiss as he shifted closer and got himself situated in the space between Dean’s thighs. He managed to get himself seated where Dean wanted him, if twisted in an awkward manner to keep from breaking the kiss. He ended up twisted and nearly chest to chest with Dean with a hand on the bed next to his hips and the other flat against Dean’s chest. It was possible he’d gotten distracted by the sensation of Dean’s lips against his. He broke the kiss and cleared his throat a bit awkwardly.

Dean barely had time to nod and release Castiel's thigh so he could move and the devious thing twisted against him and went for broke, initiating a kiss that had him flailing both hands onto Cas' hips, partly to keep himself grounded but mostly because he was just this close to wrestling those dark trousers open again. Kissing the angel was devastating; there was an awkward hesitation there, sure, but Cas applied himself to it with all the concentration and single-mindedness he did everything else and when Dean felt him lean back he couldn't bite back a low, frustrated growl. He found himself following him a few inches before he caught himself and stopped. 

He was also pretty sure Castiel hadn't even intended to get so distracted, because Dean saw an almost sheepish look cross his features. Reading him was a damned exercise in frustration, but he was getting better at interpreting those microscopic twitches. 

"You know," he started, voice little more than a raspy breath, "I'm trying to be a freaking gentleman here, man." He was a bit dazed and struggled a few moments to settle his erratic breathing; he wasn't a damned fifteen year old, so this reaction was totally effing ridiculous. He blamed angels and their apparently absurd learning curve, because Cas had nearly arched into his lap like he'd known exactly what it would do to him.

His hands twitched against Castiel's hips--God, no wonder he'd been binging on burgers when Famine had rolled around, if the sharp jut of bone under Dean's fingers was any indication--and he forced them to uncurl and worked them back up towards Cas' shoulders, back to the matter at hand before he decided to just forgo this little foreplay experiment and go straight to horizontal. But that was later and this was now, and dammit he could keep his idiot cock in line for ten seconds.

"You know," he mused, slipping one hand down Castiel's chest and undoing the rest of the shirt's buttons before tugging it back and over his shoulders, "I've been wondering something. When you showed up in Illinois... You took, what, three bullets and a knife in the chest? Never flinched." The shirt slid off and got tangled up somewhere along Castiel's elbows, but Dean's hands were currently otherwise occupied, running curiously over narrow shoulders and the long line of a spine. "And when I punched you. Nearly broke my hand. Didn't flinch then either." 

He pressed both thumbs lightly along Castiel's spine, one to either side, digging in the tense knot of long muscle as he slid his hands upwards. Lisa used to say he gave fucking great massages, and, dammit, for once he wanted to prove her right. He leaned in, hands working in tandem in short little whirls of pressure, then ghosting touches, then pressure again, up to Castiel's neck as he chuckled against him.

"It's like you never even felt it, Cas." He was suddenly curious, felt like Sammy must feel whenever he discovered something new and interesting; he wanted to understand, to know, and--God, this couldn't happen soon enough--most of all to touch and explore. "Do you feel this, at least? Is this good?" he finally asked, and he knew he sounded wrecked, so far gone, his voice pitched low and unsteady like he'd just finished running a freakin' marathon.

Castiel squirmed a bit as his shirt slid down his arms and finally just mojo’d it away with a huff. “I felt them, Dean,” he muttered, leaning forwards a bit and groaning lowly as Dean’s hands worked their way up his back. “The gun shot and the stab, even the punch, but only vaguely. That doesn’t mean they hurt me.” He rested his hands on Dean’s thighs.

“I’m not sure how to explain it… but I did feel it.” He had to work to keep his voice even as he arched up against Dean’s hands. “And this feels very good.” He groaned lowly and had to focus on what he was trying to say. “Most of the time… there’s a distance between the vessel and the angel possessing it. The vessel’s soul acts as a buffer. But Jimmy’s soul is… gone so it’s just me in here.”

He shrugged slightly. “I have no clue if what I feel is anything like what you feel, but this feels good. Really good.” He rolled his shoulders thoughtfully. “Mmm, there is only one part of me where I can be sure of what I’m feeling.” He peered over his shoulder at Dean with curious blue eyes that were mostly pupil. 

He should have felt nervous about offering to let Dean touch his wings like he was about to. But he trusted Dean. More than he trusted any of his siblings. 

Dean sucked in a harsh breath through his teeth, hands stilling as Cas twisted and fixed him with a stare that did things no stare had a right to do somewhere in his gut. Castiel's eyes, strangely arresting even under normal light when the angel was just staring blankly, were now actually physically difficult to meet. Dean found himself both unable to look away and quite shocked at himself for reading meaning and intent where there was probably only a physical reaction.

"Sorry, man. What with the exploding TVs and bursting lights and, well, what happened with Pamela back then, it was just... You freaked me the hell out, Cas, no offence," he grumbled near under his breath, a sort of apology about two years too late, probably. Sammy had been right; he was getting soft in his old age. 

He forced a strangled chuckle out through thinned lips, hands now rubbing small circles against Castiel's shoulders. The revelation that Cas had somehow felt him sink that knife into his chest was not a comfortable or pleasant one; the punch, though, he couldn't regret. Cas had being acting like a complete and utter dick at the time. But at least he had confirmation that this was good, so he figured they were on even terms, in the grand scheme of things.

"Yeah, that's... Comforting. I'd hate for the poor guy to be riding in the backseat on this trip," Dean muttered, briefly thinking back on Jimmy, who he'd met only briefly. The little adventure then, right before Cas had come back as robo-angel, had confirmed at least one thing for Dean; he could readily admit that Jimmy had been, yeah, easy on the eyes. But probably not anyone he'd be giving a massage too, if that made any sense at all.

Finally, Dean shook his head--Jimmy was gone, poor guy, but amen to that for now--and chuckled. "Only one part?" he teased, skirting his hands back down to Castiel's hips, just because he could. He was sorely tempted to make a dick joke, and really, Cas had opened the door so freakin' wide for that one, but he refrained, figuring he'd cut the angel some slack. Castiel's hands on his thighs felt like two small furnaces slapped against him, though he had no idea if that was just his own keyed-up imagination or an actual physical thing with angels, where they burned hotter than anyone else.

“It’s alright, it didn’t hurt,” Castiel said, smiling at Dean and kneading Dean’s thighs slightly. “I don’t blame you for freaking out, Dean. I had intended on being present when you woke up so I could explain things. But I was called away and when I tried to return you couldn’t understand my true voice.” He shrugged slightly. “Had I been there in person things may have gone poorly.”

“And… my wings, since they’re as close to a full physical manifestation as I can manage and not hurt you,” he murmured, blushing slightly as he leaned forward and carefully manifested his wings. He certainly didn’t want to hit Dean with them, because he knew it’d kill whatever mood they had going if he did.

He spread his wings out over the bed, mindful of not hitting Dean. They were only an approximation of his true form’s wings but they didn’t have the buffer of a vessel between him and Dean’s touch. He figured Dean would understand that and not be freaked out by them.

"Whoa, okay," Dean breathed as he shuffled back a few inches, watching in rapt bemusement as Cas unfurled his massive, mottled and dark wings out of thin air until they spread outwards and down, two long pieces of darker shadow in the already dim room. They stood in sharp contrast to the pale, unblemished skin of Castiel's body, both darker and considerably more damaged than the rest of him.

There were a few feathers out of place here and there, twisted at odd angles and sticking out, as though the angel had been lying on them for a while and gotten them mussed up. Dean couldn't help but chuckle, because his mind immediately associated that with Cas' hair, which was often sticking up weirdly itself, as though he was always walking in from a brisk walk on a windy day.

"I thought you said you weren't, you know, too hot about sharing these," Dean continued, reaching up to carefully run one hand over the top surface of Castiel's left wing--and how freaking weird was that? It put things into perspective a bit, because, sitting like this, there was absolutely no pretending that Cas was anywhere even close to human--, a soft, uncertain caress that was more curious than anything else.

They were soft, even if the feathers were huge, some of them near the tip much longer than Dean's arm. And they were, as ever, strangely comforting, but at least now he knew why, knew what to read in their dark, stained colour and in the way one of them seemed a bit gnarlier than the other.

The softness made him bold and he gently buried his fingers in between the feathers, feeling them shift and slide against his hand as he followed them up the curve of the limb. He reached one out of place feather, all kinked and twisted and sort of cut up, and lightly pulled it back into place until it more or less slotted in with its neighbours. 

"I gotta say, Cas, this is... weird as hell," he snorted, though by now both hands were trailing curiously over and under feathers.

“Mmm, normally I am but I trust you, Dean.“ Castiel bowed his head forward and let his eyes slide shut. It was just as strange for him to have hands working over his feathers. But it still felt amazing to have Dean’s hands buried in them.

He flexed his left wing under Dean’s hand. It felt strange and amazing and just as nice as the back rub had felt. If not on some levels better, because in a sense Dean was really touching ‘him’, not just his vessel when he touched his wings. He could feel Dean working one of his out of place feathers back into its natural alignment and shuddered slightly.

It was close to the feeling of a hand carding through his hair, he supposed. Intimate without being overly sexual. “If it bothers you I can get rid of them,” he said in response to Dean’s comment about strangeness and flexing his wings in preparation to hide them again. No matter how good it felt, he didn’t want to make Dean uncomfortable. 

As he shifted his wings the sound of feathers moving against each other that filled the room was a familiar sound to the angel. The half folded wings just made out of place feathers stick up ever more awkwardly. It made his skin itch when they were pulled at like that. Angels didn’t molt like birds but they did lose feathers from time to time and had to grow them back. It occurred to him that his new feathers may come back in their natural color. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

"Nah, it's fine," Dean answered, leaning back a bit when Castiel still drew his wings nearly folded against his back. "Weird, yeah, a lot of weird, but I think it's safe to say I'm used to weird by now." A few stray feathers were really sticking up now, clearly visible against the more solid mass of the wings in this position, so Dean gently folded them back in their rightful place. 

One fought him valiantly for a few seconds but eventually seemed to just give up and lay flat. "I have no idea how to do wing massages, though. Not the sort of thing you encounter often, Cas," he continued, chuckling to himself. Something occurred to him then, that this was familiar because he'd seen it in his mind before, although his 'imaginary Cas' had been doing nothing as tame as calmly sitting there half undressed. Suddenly he wanted to see the angel properly, not just his wings, and he wanted to see them shuddering and twitching. He wanted to explore, to tease reactions out of Cas because that had always been his favorite thing about getting someone new in his bed and this was Cas, totally new to all things and just so freakin' fun to lead around a bit.

Trying foods, getting him drunk, the brothel and subsequent fits of laughter; they had all been variations of this, of Arizona. When Dean finally spoke his voice had turned husky and choked, having imagined all sorts of things he'd love to try right now, starting with finishing what they'd started in Arizona. 

"Cas," he breathed, running his hands down and away from the wings to sneak them under the trailing feathers until his fingers found warm skin again. He curled his hands against Castiel's hips, unfamiliar and sharper than expected. "If you could maybe turn around right the fuck now, preferably without hitting me in the face with the wings, I'd... really, really, really like that." His fingers curled, pretty much an incontrollable twitch, digging blunt fingernails lightly in Castiel's flesh before he caught himself. 

Of course, after that he was reaching for the front of those damned sensible and business-like black trousers, toying distractedly with the button as he leaned in and pressed closer. He was stopped, of course, by the mass of feathers, prevented from reaching skin, and something like a frustrated grunt escaped him as he pawed at the hem of Castiel's pants. "Okay, sorry, man, but if you're going to flee, this is the time, right here. Or find the damned TV remote and something extremely unsexy to watch. Your call, Cas," he finally added, fingers burying themselves more or less without his consent under the hem of those black slacks.

Castiel licked his lips and thought about what Dean wanted. He leaned forwards and brought his wings in tight to his back before turning around carefully. He would have straddled Dean’s lap but it was impossible with Dean’s legs spread so he ended up on his knees between Dean’s legs instead.

“I’m not going to run off, Dean,” he murmured, smoothing his hands over Dean’s still clothed chest. He could have just used a bit of grace and whisked Dean’s clothes away with a thought. But as much fun as causing Dean to flail would be, he decided to slide his hands down Dean’s chest to shyly slip one under the hem of it.

“It would seem you are still a bit over dressed, Dean,” he said, flexing his fingers against Dean’s stomach, marvelling at the feeling of skin under his hand. He was panicking a bit but stubbornly sticking with it because of Dean. He trusted Dean enough to do this with him and damn the repercussions; he was already damned for letting things go this far, so there was no reason not to go further.

"Can't blame a guy for checking, Cas. Disappearing act is only entertaining when it doesn't leave you all on your lonesome in some motel room, you know," Dean babbled as Cas turned around. And then that was it, no skirting the issue anymore. He was suddenly faced with a slim, very male torso, paler than he'd thought it would be, hovering somewhere between surprisingly fit and a hint of softness here and there, in the dip of Castiel's hips, where those black pants were now hanging sinfully low.

Any other time that would have been enough--Dean had never gone for the buff types, not even in his early experimenting days when he'd had his little fun--but right now there was also the dark shape of wings, real, this time, not something imagined or hinted at in shadow. It had no right to send a shiver down his spine, because this was already way, way out there in the field of Very Stupid and Sinful Things to Do. For some reason, he couldn't bring himself to care.

He drew back and grinned, hands still loosely draped over Castiel's hips. "Fuck, yeah, okay. Lose the shirt, I get it," he breathed, stifling a faint hiss as one of Cas' hands ghosted over his stomach, sending delirious little fluttery jolts to pool as heat down where his dick was already happily straining against his jeans. He ignored it for the moment; there'd be time enough for urgency later on, because, right now, he wanted Cas to lose the 'forever a virgin' card. Badly.

It took quite a bit of willpower to drag his hands away from Castiel's hips but he managed to wriggle out of his shirt, toeing his shoes and socks off--Dean had long ago mastered the art of getting naked in a real hurry--in the process. "Shoes," he muttered at Cas, prodding him in the chest lightly before scooting back, one hand curled in the hem of the angel's slacks to pull him along, until his shoulders hit the bed's headboard and he could lean back against it. "And you, right here," he added as he slapped a hand on his thigh.

"You just do... whatever the hell you want to do, Cas. Within reason." He paused, deftly undid the button on Castiel's pants, and tried not to think too hard on the fact that, yes, unless he did something monumentally stupid, he was about to defile an Angel of the Lord. "I'll tell you if you do something bad, anyway. Just... Go with it."


	7. Angelic Light Shows and Surprises.

Castiel watched Dean pull off his shirt with rapt interest. He’d seen Dean naked before—in hell—but this was different. This was a slow unwrapping of Dean’s flesh. “Shoes?” he muttered, trying to figure out what footwear had to do with this. Then it hit him. “Oh. Right.”

First problem was, Castiel was not entirely sure how to get his shoes on and off. It was a problem that had never come up before. Second was he didn’t want to ruin the mood by admitting this to Dean. So instead of spending his time fighting with them he used another burst of grace to remove them and his socks. Bare feet felt strange, not unpleasant but very unfamiliar. He flexed his fingers against Dean’s chest and moved to straddle Dean’s legs. 

He didn’t know what to do, what he wanted to do. The angel licked his lips and thought about it, then decided that what he wanted to do was kiss Dean and go from there. So he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Dean’s insistently. This was at least something he knew how to do; he worked his lips against Dean’s, probing with his tongue to deepen the kiss.

Dean was already breathless when Castiel finally crawled into his lap so his little burst of low laughter at the angel's sudden shoe disappearance was completely lost when Cas pressed closer and kissed him. He'd never been too hot on kissing guys--too close, way too weird, and even with women he generally kept his lips to skin, not mouth--but kissing Cas was an experience he was starting to ridiculously enjoy. Again, it was hesitant, but this time it was Castiel who changed it and that first brush of tongue startled him into movement.

He groaned, hitching himself up straighter to press firmly against Castiel, and parted his lips to suck and lick and tease at the angel's lips and tongue. And then he was moving, hands sliding down Castiel's shoulders, groaning into the kiss when his fingers encountered soft, silken resistance on the way down. He paused, nipped once at Castiel's bottom lip and slowly pulled away, because there was no way in hell he was going to miss this.

"This okay?" Dean asked, trying--and probably failing--to disguise the raw need in his voice, just in case this got a negative reaction. He ran his hands up the base of the wings, feeling curiously up the limbs, digging his fingers lightly between the feathers, where wing met skin. It was strange, and otherworldly, but the wings were Cas and, right now, the sexiest thing he'd never imagined would happen. Dean let his hands travel lower and--finally, God--grasped tight at Castiel's ass and pulled until the hard warmth in his lap settled firmly over his trapped erection.

His hands snaked to the front of Castiel's slacks again, though this time he managed to remain aware of things, to keep an eye on Cas' face. This had the added advantage of making this the slowest damned pant-striptease he could remember. Which would be completely awesome if Dean wasn't already near shaking and anticipating this to be just about the shortest ride in a damned long while. He managed to pull Castiel's slacks down enough to slide his hand along the flat dip of his stomach and down and this time he didn't hesitate when his fingers encountered hard--warm, sweet hell, like a furnace--, silken flesh.

Another groan escaped him, urgent and low, and his lips tripped twice around a string of colourful expletives he kept trying to bite back. "Sweet Jes---Fucking hell, Cas," he finally muttered, reaching up to bury the fingers of his free hand back in the feathers of Castiel's wing as he pulled himself up and latched onto Cas' neck, burying his face there, the hand around Castiel's cock slowly moving in a firm, teasing pattern of strokes and light brushes of his fingers.

Castiel found himself shivering as Dean’s hand was once against buried in his wing. He couldn’t help but mewl and flex his wings under Dean’s fingers. “This is fine… it’s more than fine,” he murmured back, surprising himself with the raw sound of his own voice. He let out a startled sound as Dean gripped his ass tightly and pulled him more or less flush against him.

There was that pressure in his groin again, like liquid fire shooting along his nerves. It was a sensory overload for the angel as Dean’s hand worked over his flesh. It was startling and amazing and perhaps a bit too much all at once for him. Because he found himself arching against Dean and tilting his head back as he bucked up into Dean’s hand and struggled to keep control of his grace.

His struggle was evident by the lights flickering and the twitchy little jerks of his wings. “Dean,” he breathed, one hand curling over the brand he’d left on Dean’s shoulder and the other clutching desperately at the headboard. “Dean.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say or do, couldn’t spare the concentration for fear of losing control and blacking out the entire motel.

That didn’t stop the TV from flickering on and off, all white noise and static. It only took a few more of those teasing strokes over his member before that pressure burst and he shattered in Dean’s hand. The light bulbs literally shattered as well, with a series of pops and electric snaps. Castiel brought his wings up to shield Dean from the shattering glass without even really thinking about it. He felt like he was floating and completely loose-limbed. His heart was pounding in his chest. 

“I…uh…” he said rather inarticulately. His toes were tingling; he’d never even thought about them before and now they were tingling and it was slightly annoying. Or it would be if he wasn’t still riding that high.

Dean was forced to lean back as Castiel bucked against him, a sharp, tight ripple of movement that ended with the angel arching back, face turned upwards as his hips jerked, as though he had little control over the movements. Dean watched, mesmerized and panting now, stroking Cas faster even as he jerked his head up when the lights dimmed alarmingly. 

And, really, he should've been worried but... He'd never once imagined he'd see Castiel like this, twisted and moaning his name in a rush of breath nearly too low to hear but which did unfathomable things to Dean's gut, Cas' voice coiling there and pulling until he found himself chasing the angel's hips up with his own.

Castiel's hand slapped down directly over the brand on his shoulder and the pull of him intensified, as though with that one hand Cas could ground himself; but it was Dean who found himself drawn upward, following the unbroken line of the angel's chest and throat, staring for all he was worth. And, just like that, Cas was gone, the TV flickering madly behind him and the lights fizzing out. Dean had about a second of panic when the world exploded in sudden popping noises and blackness but he was kept safe from whatever glass shards might've tumbled down because, even in the throes of his first freaking orgasm Cas had still managed to pull his wings closer to shield him.

He couldn't have stopped the bubbling chuckle that wormed its way out of him if his life had depended on it, even if he was still painfully hard and breathless, because Castiel's face, when he finally looked down at him, was just so confused and dazed and wrecked. He slowly stopped moving his hand over Cas' flesh--before the angel squirmed away, because oversensitive tickling was just not a polite thing to do--and spared a single, lonely thought for those poor black slacks before pulling the stunned angel down for a lazy and very messy kiss.

"That good, huh? Dammit, I should've... done this months and months ago," he grunted as soon as he released Castiel's lips. He brushed a few stray bits of glass from his stomach, perfunctorily wiped his hand on the sheet and reached for Castiel's wrist, tugging his hand gently away from the headboard--he was a-okay with the other one on his shoulder, thank you very much--and pulling it down between their bodies to press it lightly against the front of his own jeans. "Gotta admit I wasn't expecting quite that much bang for my buck, Cas," he said with a faint grin, mentally adding 'and you are fucking gorgeous', because that wasn't the sort of thing you could rightly say to a guy.

He was pretty sure it showed on his face either way, because he was still staring at Castiel like the angel was the last slice of pie on earth and Dean was starving, which was a close enough approximation of how he was feeling. "Want to... return the favor?" he added instead, bucking upwards a bit against Castiel's weight and hand.

Castiel readily returned the kiss because it helped him focus. “I… my toes are tingling.” That was the only thing he could think to say. It came out plaintive and probably more than a little distracted. But it was true, his toes were tingling. He wasn’t sure he liked that.

He shook his wings slightly, dislodging the glass from his feathers. He blinked and fixed the light bulbs so he could see Dean properly. Another thought had his pants—and Dean’s hand—clean. He looked down at where his hand had been placed. “If you give me a moment I should be able to help you with that,” he murmured, finally able to focus correctly.

He licked his lips and undid the button on Dean’s pants. It took him a second to figure out the button but he got it open and the zipper undone. He had to shift back so he could work his hand into Dean’s pants. He curled his fingers around Dean’s member a bit shyly, but he tried to emulate what Dean had done to him. “You have to tell me what to do with this, Dean…” he muttered, resting his forehead against Dean’s. 

He kept his grip firm and stroked the flesh in his hand slowly, all the while watching Dean’s face intently. He’d never seen this expression on Dean’s face before and it was mesmerizing. Dean was a stunning example of God’s most perfect creations. Left alone for thousands of years and humanity produced something like this. 

Not only was Dean pleasing to look on, his soul was the brightest the angel had ever seen. But Castiel was hesitant to tell that to Dean, because that just wasn’t something that one shared. At least not from what Castiel had learned about humans.

"That's generally a good sign, Cas," Dean shot back, chuckling weakly as he settled against the headboard. He managed a faint, startled blink when he felt a brush of something against his hand and suddenly found himself completely dry and clean. Freakin' angel mojo; where the hell had it been all his life? He watched, still smiling faintly, as Castiel fought a bit with his jeans, watched those familiar hands draw his zipper down, watched Cas slink one hand into his open jeans and curl it--blessedly, finally, God--around his aching length.

The shock of another's fingers took him a bit by surprise, and that was a testament as to just how long he'd been out of the goddamned game, really. He took a few breathless moments to adjust--and in no way would ever acknowledge the near whine that came out of his mouth--and nodded, staring hungrily at Castiel as the angel got a tentative rhythm going. And then, because Dean wasn't one to do things halfway, he shimmied back a few inches, reached down and shoved his jeans past his hips, pushing them away so he could reach Castiel's hand.

"Yeah, I got you," he muttered, and this time when he pulled at the angel's wrist he had to stifle a slight groan, because, dammit, he was about ready to explode. Still, he would probably last a while longer than Cas--oh hell, he hoped so--and had no intention of going at it dry. He brought Castiel's hand up to his lips and slowly licked a long swatch of palm before returning it around his cock with a low sigh. Giving Castiel's fingers around his flesh a firm squeeze, he guided the angel's hand a few times--harder and faster, pressing firmly against the underside and, yes, fuck, a slow swipe of thumb over the head--then leaned upwards, clamped both hands around Castiel's neck and pulled him down to devour his mouth.

After that he lost track of himself a bit, because he knew he was clinging to the angel, one hand trailing a shoulder and hanging on for dear life, and once he had to break the kiss or else asphyxiate he attacked Castiel's neck with lips and tongue. This right here was a nice place to be, he decided, right underneath the angel's ear, because he could lap and suck at soft skin, then move only a fraction and encounter rough stubble and a firm jaw. He was groaning, he knew, half-intelligible sentences which he hoped Cas couldn't decipher because he had a tendency to get a bit filthy if he didn't watch his mouth.

Happily, most of those sounds seemed to be mangled variations on the theme of Castiel's name, sometimes shortened, sometimes drawn out in lewd moans, often just unrecognizable.

Castiel mimicked the movements Dean had guided him through. He found he really liked the little sounds Dean was making as he worked his hand over his length. He adjusted the pace to something slower so he could tentatively add a little squeeze to the base of Dean’s member every few strokes or so. He threw in a little twist of his wrist, alternating with the squeezes.

“Tria sunt quæ me-stupuit,” he murmured into Dean’s ear as he stroked Dean’s member, unable to stop himself. “Non quattuor, quae non intellego...” He pulled back and caught Dean’s lips for another kiss. He found himself getting aroused by the little sounds and babbling Dean was making. 

“Quemadmodum aquila labitur per caelum.” Most of what he was saying was nonsense; he couldn’t bring himself to babble the filthy things Dean was but felt he needed to say something. “Quam serpentem slithers supra petram.”

Castiel licked his lips and looked into Dean’s eyes, lost in the expression there. Dean may not admit it or understand it but Castiel thought he was a living work of art. “Quomodo navem navigates Oceano,” he muttered, stealing another kiss. He couldn’t help it; Dean’s lips were perfect and he could have easily gotten lost in them. He broke the kiss and in a burst of adventurousness mouthed his way along Dean’s jaw to his ear. “Quomodo pulchritudo est.”

The first random burst of whatever language Castiel had shifted into against his ear forced a full-body shudder out of Dean; he was nearly too far gone to recognize it--latin, growled directly into his ear, and he decided then and there that Cas was really a kinky little shit buried under layers and layers of uptight angelic accountant--but it sent him reeling back hard against the headboard as he arched up.

He was lost for a few seconds, staring near unseeing at Castiel, at the great dark shadows of his wings, one hand still clutching at the angel's shoulder while he slammed the other one on the bed and fisted the sheets in a death grip. He kissed back as good as he got, messy and fast, but when Cas went for his jaw and mouthed at his ear he knew he was as good as gone. 

The gruff, breathed words were only icing, and they wrestled a deep, strangled moan out of him, something totally wrecked that started with 'Oh, ffffuck, wha?' and ended on a shouted note of Castiel's name as he arched up into his hand. He pumped himself twice, just shallow twitches of his hips into that glorious grip--goddamn it, no virgin had any right to learn so damn fast--and promptly fell back down on the bed a panting mess, having made an equal mess of Cas' hand, his own chest and--oh, joy--a few unlucky bits of sheets as well.

When his brain slowly flicked itself back on he could only laugh weakly, pulling Castiel down with shaky hands for a perfunctory kiss, because he was just a tad too winded for more. "What the... hell, Cas? You just pulled the most unfair move in... the history of ever," he panted, still grinning, revelling in the particular brand of afterglow he liked to call 'happily milked totally dry'.

But this was Cas, so he quickly amended, "That was just... glorious, by the way. Just so we're clear." Next time, though--and God, he hoped there'd be a next time--he was going to damn well tape Castiel's mouth shut, because that damn voice was a weapon too terrible for one clueless angel to wield like this. And, horror of horrors, he was never going to be able to listen to Cas going all angel-fu with the exorcisms or spells without growing hopelessly hard ever again.

Slumping in a sated, boneless sprawl, he debated heading for the shower right away or later, wondered briefly if they'd get complaints tomorrow because he hadn't exactly been quiet, and decided he didn't give two shits about either shower or complaints. In a totally uncharacteristic move which surprised even him, he pulled Cas down again to bump foreheads with the angel, waiting until his heart stopped trying to crawl out of his chest. "Yeah, very nice," he repeated.

Castiel was entranced by the image of Dean arching up against him in pleasure and losing himself in his hand. He flicked his wings and with a thought and a rustle of feathers hid them again. He made a slight face at the mess they’d made and glanced up at Dean before doing another one of his angelic cleaning jobs and pulling his hand away.

Dean’s little comment about fairness made him chuckle. “You were saying far worse things, Dean,” he pointed out as he eased off Dean’s lap and sat next to him on the bed. He took a moment to peer down at their feet and think. First he decided that whichever one of his siblings decided that things like what he’d just done with Dean were wrong was stupid and/or ill informed. Because that had been wonderful and he was ready to do it again.

“It was glorious… if briefer than I’d like,” he muttered with a slight grin at Dean. He bumped his head against Dean’s and ran his hands down his sides. “I can see the… allure of this now…”

"Yeah, right, pal, I'm not the one who suddenly turned Latin phone sex operator just now," Dean shot back, though as far as comebacks were it was weak, delivered in a lazy, sated drawl. Cas was still near, which Dean found, in a worrying and troubling way, exceedingly good. Another little twitch of hand had him, the sheets and Castiel's hand cleaned up and Dean chuckled, wriggling the rest of the way out of his jeans the moment the angel got off his lap.

Sprawling was a goddamned blessing just then and he happily took it, staring up at Cas when the angel mimicked his earlier action and leaned against him. "Briefer than--... Oh, you did not just comment on performance, Cas. You blew out the lights, man." He prodded Castiel in the chest again, playfully--shit, when had he started being so fucking casual about touch? This was insane--, but it turned into a sort of downward caress and light push.

"I'm sorry, that counts as a success in my book; you don't get to bitch," he added with a massive grin, slapping one forearm over his eyes and stretching, the other hand dropping heavily against Castiel's thigh, kneading there a bit unconsciously. "So, how does it feel to finally be a grown-up, little angel boy?" Now he was wheedling, but it seemed right because he could feel sleep crawling in vision, feel his mind slowly going numb and fuzzy and didn't particularly want to sleep just now. For some reason.

Which was also worrying, because he'd perfected the roll-over-and-snore method of getting his dates to shut the fuck up and keep the cuddling to a damn minimum years and years ago.

“I didn’t mean to blow out the lights,” Castiel said with a sigh as Dean settled at his side. He almost wished he could sleep if only to get the full hazy experience Dean seemed to be having. There had been a few moments of a hazy warm lethargy after he’d found release but that was mostly gone now. In fact he was vaguely interested in attempting it again. “I didn’t mean any complaints on the performance.”

He tilted his head and shuffled down so he was more or less even with Dean. “I don’t feel any different than before, am I supposed to? Perhaps we did it wrong and should attempt it again,” he said, trying to hide his smile at the thought. 

He would have liked to curl up against Dean and enjoy the closeness but he knew Dean wouldn’t react well to that. So he kept his hands to himself and checked to see if he’d blown any of the lights in the other rooms, and was not surprised to find that he had.

Dean raised his arm and peered through one eye at the angel, staring in disbelief at Castiel's stone-serious face. He blinked and had to stifle a ridiculous sound, something halfway between a groan and a choked laugh. "What the hell, you're not even joking. I thought for sure you'd gotten good at jokes. Much as I'd like to, Cas, it's gonna have to wait. Need a breather, here," he muttered, still staring at Cas through half-lidded eyes.

The tie was gone, somewhere on the floor, probably, shoes and socks magicked off to God knew where, and the shirt and trench coat were still resting neatly on the other bed. Castiel wore only those strict black pants, though the business-like cut of them was somewhat ruined by the fact that they lay partly open and rode so low on the angel's hips he might as well not have been wearing anything. In short, he looked decadent, and for a moment Dean tried to superimpose this image with the usual one of Cas, all gruff and quirky; he had to stifle another short laugh.

"I've created a monster, I think." His voice was light though, and he patted Castiel's thigh a bit absent-mindedly, drifting in and out of a thick, happy and lazy haze, which settled like cotton wool over his limbs. Dean thought again of the Cas he'd taken to the brothel, of the utterly lost look in his eyes, of the way, he was sure now, the angel had somehow evaded having a go at poor old Chastity. For a few mad seconds he felt a surge of jealousy rise up, completely illogical and utterly selfish; Cas was his damned angel, he bore the freaking mark of his hand on his shoulder, he'd been the one to reason with him when Heaven had seen fit to try and reform Castiel into the perfect little soldier.

It was disgusting and wrong, but he wanted to keep Cas to himself, wanted to have this, apart from everything else, wanted to remember the extremely awkward silences and the poor jokes and, yeah, okay, the laughing a bit at Castiel's expense here and there. He didn't want to share this, not with Sammy, not with Bobby, not with anyone else.

It wasn't something he was comfortable admitting, even to himself; it made him dependant, and weak, and liable to do something extremely stupid. It was his stupid devotion to Sammy all over again, but different, warped into something partway between family, friendship and whatever the hell this now was. It terrified him, because Dean Winchester knew exactly what Dean Winchester was capable of when pushed, and he didn't want to face that; not now, not tomorrow, not ever again.

So when he answered his voice may have been a bit more gruff than he'd intended, but he still didn't manage to push Castiel away. "Just... lemme rest a bit. And get your ass in this bed, I don't wanna see you standing there like a robot every time I crack an eye open, Cas," he said, gesturing lazily across the empty room.

Castiel chucked and patted Dean’s leg. “It was a joke, Dean,” he said, squeezing Dean’s leg and settling more comfortably next to him. Lying next to Dean with the odd sort of lethargy that seemed to be infectious because Castiel closed his eyes to relax more. “And my ass is already in this bed, Dean.”

“Mmm, I believe my accidental light show disturbed some tenants here,” he murmured as he listened into the people around them. He so rarely got a chance to listen to people’s prayers though a lot of the time they were peaceful or uplifting. The most faithful voices where the loudest and like a balm for any angel.

It was hard not to smile at the litany of prayer around him. “Before you say anything I’m not ‘reading’ their minds. Several of them are praying about it.” He settled back against the pillows more and let out a short chuckle. “Would you like to hear some of the more amusing bits?”

Dean managed to turn his head and stare incredulously at Castiel as the angel almost melted into the bed next to him, muttering a low, "Dude, we gotta get you laid more often. Does wonders for that stick up your ass," under his breath. This time there was no hard edge to his voice though, because teasing was miles easier than acknowledging that what they were doing was essentially post-sex cuddling without the spooning.

He spent a few moments just staring at Castiel's profile before answering; post-orgasm Cas was just sinful, his hair mussed into a ridiculous mess of strange spikes and curls, lips still faintly swollen and moist, and a hint of something different in his face, as though, for a rare few minutes, the angel finally let go of some of that apparently in-bred, angelic holier-than-thou attitude. 

It made him seem years younger, and now that he'd somehow magically mojo-ed his wings away he looked a lot more human, a lot more fragile. Dean tried to push that thought away because he knew exactly where it led, knew exactly how stupidly deep his own instinct to protect friends and family went. "Yeah?" he said instead, shuffling onto his side with a slight smirk--forced a bit, sure, but real--plastered on his face. "Always thought you only got the prayers when somebody shouted your name." He didn't say the rest of it, that he'd once screamed his voice raw and that Cas hadn't come.

That wasn't the sort of thing appropriate for lazy afterglow discussion, anyway. "So what are they saying? 'Please send more lightbulbs'?" His eyes were drifting shut, though, and one treacherous hand apparently decided--without much intervention from Dean's brain--to flop heavily against Castiel's stomach, where it curled lazily over the curve of one hip. Dean glared at his hand, blinking hazily to try and fight off sleep as he mentally catalogued that hand a traitor forever.

“Mmm, the name more catches our attention. Most of the time I just tune out prayer like… it’s background sound.” He glanced at Dean and caught him staring. “Sometimes when there’s a battle or I’m distracted it’s harder to even hear my name. I have always heard you calling though, Dean.” He rolled on to his side to face Dean better.

He seemed to catch on that it was time to change the subject and half closed his eyes again to listen closer. “There’s a nun, all the way from Poland, here, traveling and trying to spread God’s word.” He smiled slightly. “She’s praying to Saint Benedict to exorcise any evil spirits here.”

“And there’s a little boy, who thinks it was his grandfather’s spirit, and he is praying for a new toy or a puppy.” That drew a real chuckle out of Castiel.

Dean couldn't help himself--even in the middle of all this chaotic rogue angels madness and stressed as he was about the fact that he was actually sharing a bed again instead of getting the hell out of dodge at the first opportunity, this was brilliant comedic gold, the sort of grand scale prank it simply wouldn't be possible to imagine without an angel in the wings--and he laughed, a throaty, exhausted sound.

"Okay, that's sort of awesome, in a twisted, National Lampoon sort of way. Bet you mommy and daddy know it wasn't granddad, if they heard me," he finally managed, stretching lazily against Castiel's side. Warmth--freaking angels, that sort of comfortable heat was just unfair and, fuck, he'd never admit it, but kind of comforting as well, in a sort of lull-you-to-sleep way--seeped into him like a banked fire as his brain mostly gave up the fight and went 'fuck all y'all, we're sleeping now'.

The last thing he'd meant to say was something along the lines of 'Don't flatter yourself, it just had been a while' but somewhere between his apparently brain-dead mind and his mouth the words mutated. If he'd been awake and aware he'd have been horrified at the cheesy chick-flick word vomit that he ended up spilling instead.

"Thanks, Cas. F'r trustin' me with this," he mumbled, warm and sated, his mind thankfully blank of all the shitstorm of memories it usually dumped on him just before blackness took it all away. This time there was no sulphur in his nose and throat, no lingering memories of pain, no guilt, just an empty slate, and then blessed, warm sleep, dreamless and comforting in its simplicity.

Castiel smiled and stroked Dean’s cheek with more affection than he’d admit to when Dean was awake. He didn’t mind watching over Dean while he slept and listening the prayers around him. He heard Sam’s frantic prayers and smiled wider. He wouldn’t be surprised if both he and Dean got an earful from Sam in the morning.

Two rooms away Sam slowly sank back into his own bed, his heart hammering in his chest. He'd taken out the shotgun and rock salt shells from the bag just beside his bed the moment he'd woken up. The TV had blared static and white noise at him for all of three seconds then fizzed out and every light bulb in the room had popped, all at once.

He'd been up, dishevelled and in his boxers, and stalking towards the door in a heartbeat when the lights had all flicked on again, miraculously whole and suspiciously bright. The TV, when he'd opened it, had still been tuned to the news station he'd been watching before going to sleep. There was not a single shard of broken glass on the carpet. And so he'd gone back to bed, wide-eyed, and started swearing.

"Oh my God. Oh my God, I so didn't want to know about this. Dean, you utter asshole." 

He'd debated checking in on his brother but the thought of what he might find--good God, no--was just too much, so he'd decided to go back to sleep. He could tear Dean a new one for submitting him to this--again, Jesus, he could still remember that one time in Wisconsin when Dean had picked up the red-haired chick and her goddamned brother--in the morning.

He still slept with the shotgun in his lap, just in case.

Castiel was watching Dean sleep as the sun rose. It occurred to him that Dean would probably have some sort of glib comment about being watched while he slept but the angel didn’t care. It was rare for Dean to sleep peacefully and Castiel wanted to see Dean when he was truly at peace. 

As the morning went on Castiel let his mind wander to the host. It was quiet for a change, like the lull before a storm. Azrael was absent again, gone from the host and his hearing. He hated that he couldn’t trust his siblings.

Dean woke in stages, slowly, and this time it wasn't quite as strange as the first time this had happened. He took hazy notice of his surroundings as his senses flared to life, one after the other. The warmth was the first thing he noticed, a sort of pulsing heat hovering between calming and uncomfortable. When he realized that, yeah, hello, he had arms, he flailed blindly with one hand and shoved at the sheets tangled around him.

The air wasn't much cooler but he couldn't notice that just then because he was suddenly acutely aware of several things; one, there was a very annoying sliver of sunlight falling right across his face--this always happened, no matter how carefully he'd closed any kind of blinds the night before--two, he was pressed lazily against a hard, soft body and three, he was stark naked and hard as hell, practically leaking against Castiel's thigh as he shuffled closer instinctively.

Castiel's thigh, which was still clothed in those damned black trousers. Because Castiel was in the bed. With him. The previous night rushed at him, all at once, and instead of the panic he might've expected of himself all Dean managed was a sort of mangled mix of a groan and a less-than-awake soft snore.

"M'fghnr," he managed to say, displaying an enormous amount of vocabulary, he thought. He tried again after clearing his throat, undaunted. "Mornin'." And then he was stretching, because it was either that or rutting against Cas. He opened his eyes and, just like that, the laziness was gone. Because Castiel was staring at him--big, blue eyes all aware and very awake, the cheating son of a bitch--and Dean couldn't let that slide.

"Cas. Watching me sleep. Sorta creepy, man," he said, voice still gruff from sleep. He realized, belatedly, that he was blushing a bit--curse his freaking freckled face--and carefully managed to find his own limbs and disentangle them from where he was wrapped around the angel like an octopus. Dean Winchester did not do cuddling. Except, apparently, when it was nearing ninety degrees, curse his luck. He was sweaty and sticky and decided right then and there that a shower would be the greatest thing in the universe. Right fucking now, please.

What he physically managed was an absurdly inarticulate, "Shower, Cas, now," as he slowly sat up, tugging once insistently at Castiel's--goddamn it, he was never going to forgive himself for not getting the angel out of them--pants. He blinked a few times, looked down at Castiel and bent towards the angel for a quick, messy and uncoordinated kiss. He hoped to God Cas got the message because he couldn't stand the humid air inside the motel room for one second longer and swiftly--if unsteadily--padded to the bathroom, still naked and not giving much of a shit about it.

The bathroom was minuscule but it held a rather sizeable shower stall slash bathtub, and the curtain bulged out on its rails to make the stall appear even bigger than it was. Dean didn't care overmuch beyond the prospect of lukewarm water and quickly got the water going before slinking under the spray with a grateful sigh. His thoughts were muzzy and carefree as he blindly shuffled around for the soap, an uncomplicated mess of flesh, skin, feathers, cock and a faint desire for furiously strong coffee.

“I rarely get to see you at peace, Dean,” Castiel muttered back, finding Dean pressed against him far to comfortable. He wasn’t really willing to admit it’d been comfortable to have Dean pressed against him. The weight of another body against his was novel and something the angel could easily get used to; the hard press of Dean’s sleep induced erection was another story.

At first Castiel had been tempted to see what would happen if he touched it and coaxed it along more. But he had thought better of that, he was pretty sure that that was not something that would have been welcomed. So he’d kept his hands to himself. 

When Dean had leaned close to kiss him Castiel had been a bit surprised at the easy familiarity of it and had readily returned the kiss if only to stare up at Dean as he tugged at his pants and barked something about a shower. The angel trailed after Dean into the bathroom and stopped just outside the shower with his pants still mostly round his hips.

It took Dean a couple seconds to realize that, yes, Cas had followed him. He hadn’t bothered to close the shower curtain all the way through, and Castiel was just standing there, looking as stoic and unreadable as ever. Dean rolled his eyes.

“Jesus, man, I don’t know what time it is, but it’s just… way too early for that face,” he said, voice garbled by the rushing water. He was still uncertain about all this—Cas had nearly bashed his skull in once, they’d had their fair share of shouting matches, and not over the little things, either, and both of them were mostly just stumbling along right now—but his usual bravado provided where his logic didn’t, and he reached out, pushed the curtain aside and fisted a very wet and dripping hand in Castiel’s pants.

This was still Cas, of course, and it was still Cas’ face, birdlike in its curiosity. The stance was the same, and though the absence of the rest of the tax accountant getup was a bit weird it was absolutely nothing compared to what Dean now recognized in the angel’s eyes. It was a look he knew well, because he saw it every day in the mirror; it was the same look Dean sometimes caught a glimpse of when he thought of Sam and Bobby, and if recognizing it was strange he took no notice of it.

Because it meant acceptance and warmth and forgiveness, and he needed that like he needed air to breathe, though he had never actively acknowledged it before and very probably never would. “Get in here,” he growled, tugging forcefully at the material fisted in his hand, the water sluicing down his arm to make a massive mess of the tiled floor at Castiel’s feet. He didn’t care; Cas was here, he hadn’t flittered up upstairs to go about whatever business he had during the night. He had stayed. And that was good enough in Dean’s book.

Castiel blinked and after a moment he pried Dean’s fingers off his pants gently and pushed them down until he could step out of them. Which he did, then stepped a bit shyly into the shower. He’d never been fully naked before; it was strange to feel so exposed when clothing was only thin fabric and didn’t protect much. 

“Alright, I’m in here, now what?” he asked, tilting his head and watching Dean with interest. The lukewarm water felt better than he had expected. He was beyond all redemption in his brother’s eyes at this point. But he didn’t care, because they couldn’t understand this. They didn’t want to understand what he saw in Dean and he didn’t want to try and explain it.

He would defeat Raphael so he could protect Dean. He’d give up everything to protect this glorious man in front of him, he already had without knowing Dean half as well as he did now. It was no great leap to do it again.

Dean nearly opened his mouth to answer ‘God, you’re hopeless’ when Castiel stepped into the shower and just stood there like he had no freaking idea what to do with himself. But he didn’t, because as soon as he thought of doing so his mind provided him with the always haunting memory of a fuzzy beard and deadened eyes, Castiel’s bitter, out-of-it laughter constricting his chest painfully.

He simply smiled and shook his head, and maybe the smile was a bit more fond than he’d intended. “Just enjoy the water, Cas. Here,” he said instead, grabbing the nearest bar of cheap hotel soap—fuck, chemical lavender again, always—and making a frothy mess of the gritty, too-thin washcloth. He dragged it slowly down Castiel’s chest and that was about the point where his brain fully woke up and said ‘there is a naked angel in your shower’.

The towel ended up forgotten, pressed somewhere against Castiel’s hip and then Dean was leaning closer and grabbing for the angel’s neck with the other hand, pulling himself flush against him to claim his lips. He was just getting into it and almost choking on a groan when he belatedly heard three rapid-fire knocks—Sammy’s code—and it must’ve taken too long for him to respond because the next thing he realized was that there was a definite draft around his ankles and the shower curtain was going wild in the faint breeze from the extremely open bathroom door.

To his dying day Sam would swear that he’d waited the previously agreed-upon thirty seconds before stepping into the motel room. He had time to glance down at the mussed-up bed, frown, shift his gaze to the other unmade bed and notice a familiar trench coat and dark suit jacket and subsequently frown a lot more, before he finally registered the noise of the running shower.

His brain realized what was going on before he did, because he could not believe it. He didn’t see a damned thing, thank God, but he still averted his eyes, managed a stumbling, “Uh, I’ll be, uh, in the motel restaurant,” and then he was out the door and walking away before he even remembered the motel had no restaurant, only a crappy counter which served reheated coffee and held about half a dozen stale croissants.

Of course, the second Sam’s voice registered to Dean’s ears he froze, one hand curled around Castiel’s neck, the other lost somewhere between them. He managed a faint, “Gonna kill him,” before thunking his head against Castiel’s shoulder and sighing. He could just about imagine Cas’ face, figured the angel was probably clueless as to what had just happened and gave up. There was no way in hell he could do anything now, not knowing Sammy was probably fretting outside like a freakin’ girl.

So Dean scrunched his eyes shut, firmly tried to ignore the mental image of turning Castiel around and fucking him senseless against the rather grimy bathroom tiles and leaned back. “I think we’re running a bit late,” he managed, his voice sounding more like a whine to his own ears than he would’ve preferred.

“Hello Sam,” Castiel said without so much as batting an eyelash at Sam’s bumbling into the room. His hands had settled on Dean’s hips because he didn’t know what else to do with them. He’d been enjoying the kiss and wherever it was leading to. Dean was wet and felt good pressed flush to him, but he knew that Sam’s arrival had jerked Dean’s mind far, far away from where it had been headed.

“It would seem that way,” he said as he gently pulled the wash cloth away from Dean and dragged it over Dean’s chest. “This is the most curious thing I’ve ever done,” Castiel murmured, moving the soapy rag in lazy circles over Dean’s chest. 

He had a few faint memories of Jimmy enjoying a nice hot shower after a long day of work, or slipping into one with his wife for a few stolen moments. Castiel decided he liked showers even though for him they were completely useless, frivolous things. Still, he liked them; they reminded him of a warm rain shower but at will. Even being naked wasn’t really that bad; after all, his true form was more or less nude and that was just a natural state of being.

Dean’s head jerked up when he felt the washcloth moving slowly over his chest and he met Castiel’s completely unconcerned gaze with his own, slightly widened eyes. Cas was lazily rubbing the soapy cloth over him, focus intent on watching his skin apparently get covered in suds, as though it was the most interesting thing he could be staring at right now. Some of the tension bled away from Dean’s limbs and he shook his head, disbelief and a sort of fond amusement settling over him.

“Jesus, Cas, Sam was just here and you look like you pretty much just don’t care,” he mumbled, most of him relaxing slightly under the spray and the somewhat zen-like caress of the washcloth over his skin. “God, you’re the most curious thing I’ve ever, done,” he added, chuckling a little at his own joke. And would do again, if he got the chance, because Cas last night? Had been utterly hot as hell, and, yeah, he definitely wanted more.

He just wasn’t sure he could handle more right now while Sammy paced around the Impala and imagined all sorts of dirty things. Dirty things he could handle in spades; Sammy’s knowing grin and his sure knowledge that Dean was a filthy pervert who enjoyed whatever the hell he’d come up with was a less tempting prospect. And while, yes, of course Dean was a filthy pervert—he’d come to terms with that way before he’d even dropped out of school, actually—he at least wanted it clear just why he was, and not have to rely on Sammy’s dubious imagination.

Besides, no way in hell did he want to risk his brother witnessing another light fixture mishap. About half a second later his brain interrupted him and ventured that, no, he just really didn’t want to share whatever sounds he could manage to wring out of the angel. With anyone. 

So it was with that rather cheerful if disturbingly possessive little thought running circles in his mind that he leaned close again, mouth closing lazily around Castiel’s slick-wet bottom lip for a very brief, exceedingly arousing little kiss. “Can you, uh… fuck, wait outside? Because I’m just not gonna be able to concentrate on anything just now and Sammy’s gonna flip out if we don’t get our asses out there pronto. Sorry, Cas,” he forced out once he pulled himself sufficiently away, that is to say, exactly a breath away from Castiel’s lips because that was all he could manage at the moment.

Castiel found himself watching the pattern of the soap running down Dean’s chest. He returned the kiss and very nearly followed Dean’s lips as he pulled away. “Yes, of course, Dean,” he said, leaning close to kiss Dean again. He pressed the wash cloth into Dean’s hand as he kissed him, dragging his teeth lightly along Dean’s lower lip.

He didn’t bother to step out of the shower this time or to pull away from the kiss. One moment he was there then with a gust of air he was gone, as were his pants. All of his clothes in fact; he was waiting beside the Impala fully dressed and looking just as he always did. 

He would have liked very badly to have stayed in the shower with Dean and wander back down the path they’d started. But there would be another time for that; they had to get back to Bobby’s and look into the scroll of names.

Dean barely had time to blink and swallow down a colourful curse—Cas had been mirroring what he was doing, using his own damned moves on him and it was just as devastating in the cold light of day as it had been last night—and then he found himself standing stupidly in an empty shower stall, one hand clutching mindlessly at the still soapy washcloth. It took a few moments before he was aware of anything but his burning desire to firmly slug Sammy in the shoulder for interrupting.

After that he managed a quick shower and forced his mind back on the hunt, where it obviously should have been this whole time. Random strangers picked up at the dark end of a bar were much easier to deal with; for one thing, they were always invariably gone the next morning, so the temptation of lingering for a bit before moving on had always been pretty much zilch.

He quickly dressed, slicked a hand through his still wet hair and declared himself presentable, then packed his bag—noting with some dim sense of amusement that Cas had taken his coat and jacket and, thankfully, pants with him—before finally making his way outside to the parking lot.

Where Sammy was pointedly trying his damnedest to ignore Castiel; he was doing a poor job of it though, and Dean could almost smell the questions lodged in his brother’s throat as he approached them.

“Morning, Dean. Slept well?” Sammy intoned pointedly.

“Hey. Sure I did. Why wouldn’t I?” The answer was curt, but Dean really didn’t want to do this this early. A quick glance at his watch told him it wasn’t nearly as early as he’d thought though. Nine forty-five. Oops. No wonder Sammy had been antsy.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because it’s nearly ten?” Sam got into the passenger’s side seat as Dean dumped his bag in the trunk and motioned Castiel towards the back of the car.

He slunk behind the steering wheel and was starting the car as nonchalantly as freaking possible when Sammy spoke again.

“Also maybe because every single lightbulb exploded in my room ‘round about eleven, last night.” Sam quirked an eyebrow, as though he’d just won an argument. “And the TV went haywire at the same time. But you know what’s weird? When I got up to check, everything was fine. I think we can rule out spirit, don’t you?”

“Maybe you were just dreaming,” Dean muttered as he swerved a bit sharper than he needed out of the parking lot.

“Dean…”

“So, Cas,” Dean said, pointedly ignoring Sam’s massive frown. He heard a puff of a sigh from his brother, who he just knew was glaring at him with his ‘this isn’t over’ look as he continued, “Back to Bobby’s to pour over our newly acquired intel?” He glanced up in the rearview mirror, practically begging Castiel to stay, because if he was left alone with Sammy for the whole drive he just knew there’d be more talking to suffer through.

Castiel tilted his head. “I sensed nothing abnormal last night,” he chimed in with a vaguely amused look as he settled into the back seat of the Impala. He wished he could get Dean to let him take them back to Bobby’s the fast way. He caught sight of Dean looking at him in the rearview mirror. He tilted his head then nodded slightly; he would stay, even though he could be doing a dozen other things while Dean and Sam traveled back to Bobby’s. Just because Dean asked.

“Did you look into the scroll last night, Sam?” he asked, looking at the younger Winchester with interest. He was curious to see it himself but it wasn’t something he was rushing to do. He sensed the host was still at a rare peace. Which was worrying, something big was moving and he could sense it. Something big that Castiel could sense, could almost see.

He would wait and watch over the Winchesters until he understood what was happening. Knew what it was he sensed. He thought about voicing his concerns to Dean and Sam, but thought better of it. There was no need to worry them with a gut feeling; when he had more information he would say something.

Somehow being directly included in the chase seemed to dull Sam’s sour mood, because he reached down, shuffled around his own pack where it lay between his feet on the floor of the car and dug out the scroll, unrolling it with what, to Dean, looked like a cross between absurd reverence and the dizzyingly geeky love of a comic book nerd sliding a collectible issue from its comic book condom.

Dean snorted, but even that didn’t deter Sam as he twisted in his seat and unrolled the scroll for Castiel to look at. “I did, actually. Had to cross-reference most of the names, but that’s all it is, really; a list of names. Some of them I couldn’t even find mention of online. Anywhere,” he said, before pointing at a corner of the scroll.

“And there’s that.” There was a scrabbled bit of writing in the corner, cramped and nearly illegible, written in a different ink than the rest of the thing. 

Dean shifted in his seat, tried to twist himself to see what Sammy meant and huffed because he couldn’t. He turned back to keep his eyes on the road. “Share with the rest of the class, dumbass. What’s ‘that’?”

“Writing,” Sam explained. “Different hand than the rest of it, but I couldn’t make it out. It doesn’t look like english and every time I thought I’d managed to find something that matched it, it… sort of changed.” Sam’s voice was tight, worried, and Dean frowned.

“Sort of changed? How does writing ‘sort of’ change?”

“I don’t know, Dean. It changed,” Sam shot back, temper flaring again. “One minute I thought I’d figured it out as really messily-scrawled Latin and then I look away and back and nope, it’s definitely not Latin. And then I went through Aramaic, and Hebrew and just… I have no idea what it means. Stayed up half the night trying to figure it out.”

“Thought you’d said you were sleeping by eleven,” Dean muttered, feeling a little put off, as he maneuvered the car onto the highway.

“I was sleeping, until you woke me.”

There were a few seconds’ uncomfortable silence, during which Dean very much didn’t think about how loud he’d been, how utterly amazing the sex had felt and how totally unhinged he’d gotten. He coughed into the silence and gestured blindly at the list behind him. “Okay, so. A list and a mystery glyph. Can you make it out, Cas?”

Castiel reached for the scroll and took it from Sam gently. He peered at the writing and frowned. He tilted it towards the sunlight coming in through the Impala’s windows then ran his thumb over the glyph and moved it back and forth under the light. He was examining it other ways as well. 

“This ink, did you notice anything about it? Not the text, the ink,” he said while looking up at Sam, still running his thumb over the text and frowning. 

“What? You mean aside from the fact it kept changing on me? The pigment mostly seems to check out as period for this sort of thing. I haven’t had time to really dig into this, Cas,” Sam answered, throwing Dean a concerned glance. Castiel was often scowling, but neither Winchester had seen quite this level of intense concentration and worry on the angel’s face in a damn long while.

Castiel was listening into the host more intently than he had in a long time. He could hear the archangels, other ones, neither Raphael nor Azrael. The ones that had slipped into hibernation over the decades and still slept.

Their voices were like sleepy murmurs under the current of the host. Then there were the Seraphim, silent unless they were working. Only two other voices hadn’t rang on in heaven in thousands of years. And he thought he heard a whisper of one. He looked down at the glyph again. 

He frowned and looked up again. “Dean. I apologize again for your bowel blockage and the concern you will have for your car. But this can’t wait if I’m correct,” he said, reaching up and touching the roof of the car, and just like that they were once against parked but this time right outside Bobby’s.

Something like dread settled in the pit of Dean’s stomach and his fingers clenched tight around the steering wheel as he drove. The moment things started to feel like they could go the shit-hitting-the-fan way he had his brother by his side again, no hint of Sammy’s previous bitchiness about whatever the hell had happened back in the motel present in Sam’s expression. It was a blessed, small relief, to know that, after everything, Sammy was still… well… his kid brother, and would stick with him no matter how weird things got. Dean still wasn’t used to that, expected little of others even if he expected everything of himself. It was nice to be proven wrong, again.

He chanced a look back towards Castiel once he’d overtaken a slow, beige sedan and rejoined his lane. The angel seemed to be deep in thought, staring unseeing at the bit of aged scroll in his hands, and Dean had to spare a thought for the fact that Cas hadn’t even -glanced- at the thing before. They’d had an entire night to pour over it, and hadn’t. 

Castiel had held the scroll and given it over without a thought about what he might find there about whatever lost siblings had wandered off the beaten path. Because Dean had kissed him. And then some. He wasn’t certain what that meant—or even how he could begin to describe how he felt about that joyful little insight—but he knew it was big, bigger than he was comfortable with, for the moment.

He was just starting to digest that thought when Castiel looked up, blue eyes blazing serious and business-like, and slapped his hand on the roof of the Impala. 

“Oh, fuck, wait, wait, Cas…” The scenery changed around them and Dean slammed on the brakes, even as he heard and felt the motor die with a pitiful, whirring whine under his seat. “Jesus.” He resisted the urge—barely—to reach a hand out over the dash and soothe the car, because, dammit, this was the second time in a few days that she had gotten her sweet, sweet ass mojo-ed somewhere without her permission.

But only barely. Dean twisted in his seat and shot Castiel a helpless look, hovering between worried as hell and pissed. “Just what the hell is going on?”

“My apologies again, Dean,” Castiel said softly, looking up at Dean. “We should go inside so I can explain what this is. Too many chances for someone to be listening out here.” He rolled up the scroll and got out of the car. 

He headed into Bobby’s house without waiting to see if Dean and Sam were following. Once inside he cleared off the kitchen table and produced a bit of chalk. He started by drawing thirteen equally sized circles. Six in a hexagonal pattern around a circle of six more with the oddly numbered circle in the center. He then connected the circles with straight lines branching out from the center of each circle.

“This,” he said, tapping the exact center of the sigil with the chalk, “is what’s on the scroll.” He frowned and looked more disturbed than he had before. Far, far more disturbed.

“That’s not an answer, Cas,” Dean started as he pried the keys out of the ignition and roughly pocketed them. Of course, by then Castiel was already out of the car and Dean could only spare a second to share a bewildered look with Sam before he vaulted out of his seat and followed, pocketing the keys as he went. Sammy scrambled out of the car after him, and they were just stumbling into Bobby’s living room when Castiel sent everything off the kitchen table flying.

Dean’s heart dropped. Because this, right here, right now, was exactly what he’d wanted to avoid. Wendigos and spirits and ghosts he could, and happily would, handle. Demons even, because those bastards had it coming. Vamps, werewolves, all worthwhile preys in his book. But he’d given his all fighting a war on two fronts; he’d given everything up, twice over, to survive the fucking mess that had been heaven’s little war game. He’d exhausted himself, he’d soldiered on and pretended he could do it again, for Sammy’s sake. For Bobby’s sake.

For Castiel’s sake, because anything would’ve been better than that bleak future he still wasn’t even clear hadn’t been a total mindfuck on Zachariah’s part. He’d given the hero thing his all, and, fuck, he just knew something else big was just about to bite them in the ass and he wasn’t sure, this time, that he could stomach it.

Sammy must’ve sensed something because he felt a brief, reassuring hand against his shoulder when Cas finally glanced at them. Dean sighed and stepped closer, Sam not two paces behind him. He stared at the symbol Castiel had drawn, totally nonplussed. At his side, Sam hissed a breath in through his teeth, fingers twitching as though he was just itching for his laptop. Which Dean was sure he was, utter geek that he was.

“I think I’ve seen this before, actually,” Sam managed, staring at the symbol as though he could will it to make sense. 

Dean only sighed, pulled up the nearest chair and sank into it. He stared up at Castiel, feeling out of his depth and, once more, dragged along by events beyond his control. But he couldn’t afford to let himself crumble now, because Sammy was here, he was in Bobby’s house, and Cas had about as good as requested their help. 

The fact that Castiel look wretched and more than a little worried, not to mention tense enough to crack walnuts with his bare hands, did little to appease Dean’s mood. “Looks a bit like a Devil’s Trap,” he muttered unhelpfully, glaring at the sigil, willing it not to exist. “Better question is why would anyone have managed to scribble on something apparently guarded by sphinxes?”

“This is the seal of Metatron,” Castiel said, tapping the sigil again. “Its power is what created Lucifer’s cage. Sam, you probably saw it when you were inside the cage.” The angel looked up at Dean and Sam then back down at the sigil he had drawn. 

“The sphinxes only held this knowledge, they didn’t guard it. But… I don’t know how this mark got there. There should be no way for it to be here. Metatron… hasn’t spoken or acted… I can’t remember when the last time Metatron openly spoke was. Only he could have done this, no other angel, fallen or not, would dare it.” Castiel’s frown deepened.

In theory the sigil could be used to make another cage like the one that held Lucifer and Michael. But there weren’t enough archangels alert to handle the spell and what would they need to seal? The cage could hold the entire host without a problem. It was impossible to break out of, not as it stood now.

“Stop thinking so loud, boy. You’ll set my table on fire,” Bobby said as he stomped into the room. “We got a problem, boys. Garth’s in Omaha. He’s run into a trickster and he’s way outta his depth with it. You need to get down there and save his fool ass before he ends up dead.”

Sam was shuffling forwards and staring at the symbol—and Cas—like they were the most interesting thing in the world before Castiel had even finished speaking. Dean glanced at his brother with a sort of fond, helpless look; Sammy would always be a geek. Whoever this new hitter was, this Metatron, Dean could only anticipate another dick angel, another bump in the road towards… Well, he wasn’t even sure anymore.

He left Sam to his fangirling and stood back until Bobby burst in. Angels and demons and apocalypses he could deal with, but a hunter in trouble was, well, a hunter in trouble. Even if that hunter was a hundred pounds of wet noodles and completely useless, as far as Dean was concerned.

He sighed, glanced around the room and settled his gaze on Bobby. “Okay. We’ve got shit running down our ears right now. Cas,” he said, turning to fix the angel with what he hoped was a serious look. He didn’t want to do this, didn’t, above all else, want to let Cas out of his freaking sight right now, but he didn’t have a choice. “Can you get Sammy up to date on what’s going on with this Meta… whatever deal?”

This was big, he knew it, didn’t want to acknowledge it, especially with Sam—big old mighty sasquatch—looking suddenly so damned small at the mention of the cage and Lucifer. But when Bobby asked for help you didn’t just ignore him, so he had little choice in the matter. “I’m gonna go check up on our trekkie geek Garth,” he hissed, somewhat pissed that some random trickster act would come up now, of all times.

Still, this research thing was mostly out of his depth; he knew, in his gut, that this was the sort of thing Sammy was good at, and Castiel knew about this stuff and would probably steer everyone in the right direction, though it would admittedly be a long and painful process, full of dusty old books on Sam’s end and cryptic phrases on Castiel’s. His time, and talents, were better spent elsewhere, much as it pained him to admit it.

Castiel didn’t even look up at Dean. “Alright, you go take care of the trickster and I will tell Bobby and Sam what I know about Metatron,” he said, unrolling the scroll over the top of the sigil he’d drawn. He didn’t like the idea of Dean running off on his own when Castiel couldn’t keep track of him from a distance. But he couldn’t care about that at this point. 

He didn’t bother with pointless demands of him staying safe or calling if he got in too deep. Dean would be as reckless as he always was and Dean knew he could always call for help when he needed him. So it was worthless for him to say those things. He’d make a point to check in on Dean if he was gone too long.

Bobby grunted. “You best hurry then, that idjit said the thing had already killed about a dozen farmers with sheep, of all things. It’ll probably move on soon and then you’ll have lost it. We’ll get all this squared away and probably have a plan for you to bitch about when you get back,” the older hunter said, making shooing motions.

"Alright, alright, jeeze. I get it, 'don't let the door hit your ass on the way out'," Dean grumbled, shouldering his still closed pack. He shot a quick glance Castiel's way, pretended he'd never really meant his eyes to linger possibly a bit too long on the angel's face and turned towards Sam, who was staring at him with a very knowing grin on his face. "Coordinates to wherever the hell's that idiot Garth holed up on my phone, ginormo?"

"Yeah, sure. You'll get your GPS, you technologically handicapped ape," Sammy shot back, though his features softened immediately. "Keep an eye out, Dean. You know how tricksters are."

"Oh yeah, trust me, I remember," he sighed. He managed a quick salute at Bobby, clamped a hand briefly on Sam's shoulder and almost didn't make a fool of himself by hesitating like a freaking girl before finally deciding on a curt nod and slightly forced smirk towards Castiel. For a second, he'd almost gone for touch, a hand maybe trailing up that damned trench coat, a light squeeze of Cas' arm. He was being a complete and utter idiot, that much he knew; if there was one person here who certainly fucking did not need his help, Castiel was it. That little reality didn't seem to want to sink in, though, because he'd seen the angel broken and beaten down in too many ways before.

Thankfully he was up and out the door before he could further embarrass himself, though he swore he heard Sam's laughter as he dumped the bag back into the Impala's trunk. He was pretty sure he deserved whatever quip Sam had thrown his way--and he really did have to stop thinking of Cas as 'his angel', because clearly that was screwing with his mind a bit--but the knowledge that Sammy had probably gotten a good one in without Dean there to bitch back was annoying as hell. 

He got into the car, sighed, and took off out of there as fast as he could, ruminating on his own stupidity, on Castiel, and on ways to get back at Sammy as he drove. Omaha wasn't all that far--he'd probably make it in time to stuff his face and find the motel Garth was squatting in before night fell--so he wouldn't have time to plan much of a demise for Sammy and his too-curious mind. Instead his thoughts swirled stupidly around Cas the entire drive over, and at some point he had to resort to switching to a talk radio station just to keep his mind occupied.

Which was why Dean was exhausted, a bit pissed and very short on patience when he finally pulled up next to a beaten old land rover that was more rust than paint. "Garth," he boomed, knocking thrice on the motel room door. "Open up, man, it's Dean." A pause, as he suddenly remembered Garth hadn't exactly been a shining example of quick-on-the-uptake before. "Winchester."

Castiel was gone within moments of Dean’s leaving. Several of Bobby’s lore books—including the copy of Azrael’s tome—appeared on the table where he’d been standing. He had to go to heaven and check. To see for himself if Metatron was rousing from his hibernation.

Bobby snorted and picked up one of the books. “Let’s get to it then. Clearly he’s got something on his mind, he’ll either be back or he won’t,” he said, pulling out a chair as starting to go over the books. He wanted to know more; on the flip side he really didn’t want to deal with more of the angelic bull shit.

The door burst open and Garth practically threw himself at Dean and caught him in a bear hug. “Oh man, Dean, it’s great to see you again. Man, this thing’s already almost burned me with the local PD,” he said, stepping back from Dean. He ushered Dean inside the hotel room. “The thing’s been killing very specific people too.” He gestured to the far wall of the room.

There was a map of the area in Omaha where the killings had been happening. Several push pins with string to pictures showed the exact location of the deaths. “Can you make sense of it?”

Dean almost swallowed his tongue when the door burst open and he was caught in the most awkward bear hug of the century, the dweeb not even giving him time to flail back before he was caught. Still, he managed a snorting laugh, because Garth, while clearly the worst dweeb in the history of mankind, was sort of likeable, and it was difficult to actually get mad at him; for one thing, his face seemed to be made of putty, stupidly expressive, and his enthusiasm would've been hard to shake if Dean's last memory of him hadn't been of the guy waking up exactly one second after the brawl had been over.

"Jesus, man. I just got here," he grumbled good-naturedly, pushing Garth aside lightly--because, hello, tiny man--and dropping his pack somewhere on the floor by the wall. The map seemed accurate enough, and at least Garth seemed able to hold his end on this part of the job, even if Dean had his doubts about his survival rate in the field.

He peered at the wall, frowning at each note held under a pushpin, reading them with increasing horror. The bits of paper had a story to tell all their own, a list of names and places of death, all written down in cramped, hurried handwriting. Dan Winston, 1967 Chevy, found crushed against the steering wheel of his car in a ditch by a local bar. Dirk Wade, 1966 Chevy Nova, stuffed in the trunk so hard most of him hadn't fit. Darian Wesson, 1968 Chevelle SS, exploded all over the hood of his black car on the side of the highway. 

The list went on, black cars, all Chevrolet, all around the same vintage, all involved in some freak accident in which some poor bastard with Dean's initials had apparently met an untimely and very unlikely death.

Dean frowned. "Dude, you're telling me you haven't figured this out?" he growled, one hand reaching for his cellphone in his pocket before his brain caught up with him. So, yes, someone--scratch that, some trickster--had it in for Dean. He had only ever met one trickster, even if that had been a complete front for something else, something infinitely more powerful and definitely more annoying. He was tempted, for a second, simply to call out and ask the bastard to show up.

But if nothing happened he'd look like a complete arse. "Okay, fine. DWs' getting pulverized on the road while driving classic cars--Black, too, I gotta add--and you say you got a trickster on your hand. Well..." He thought for a moment, then turned back to Garth and smiled. "I think I know how to draw your trickster out. Tell me you got some blood out of one of these poor saps? We only need enough to cover the tip of one stake."

He bent down, fished the ever so useful angel blade out of his duffel bag--he'd taken to stuffing it in there during the apocalypse and hadn't ever bothered to change that habit--and surreptitiously stuck it under his jacket as he straightened up. "Hop in, poindexter," he added as he walked straight back outside. They still had a few hours' daylight to play in, and Dean wanted to find the fucker and get this over with as soon as possible. If his hunch was right, he was going to enjoy this. "We're going for a ride."

“Yeah I already got stakes. It’s just I can’t seem to pin him down,” Garth said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I put it together, but the thing is, why would a trickster fixate on you?” he asked, frowning and looking from the map to Dean.

“I know you and Sam tangled with one a few times but that wouldn’t make all of them hate you,” the shorter man added, watching Dean retrieve the angel blade then trailing after Dean outside. 

Except there was someone perched on the hood of the Impala. “About time you showed up.” The speaker was munching happily on a candy bar. “I mean, I’ve only been at this trying to flush you out for a few months.”


	8. Missions and Panic

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't exactly call it 'tangled' and I wouldn't exactly say 'a few times', either. And I don't think this one even is a trick--..." Dean's voice trailed off as he stepped outside, and he stopped so suddenly Garth pretty much slammed into his back. Sitting on the hood of his car, probably getting his damned angelic sticky fingers all over her paint job, was none other than the bastard who had put Dean and Sam through TV land hell.

He frowned, debated just chucking the damn angelic blade at Gabriel and opted for pointing it at him instead. "Some people just call instead of going on murder sprees, you know," he gritted out, stepping closer but warily staying well out of Gabriel's reach. "And yeah, we survived the apocalypse and stuff, no thanks to you, thanks for asking, everyone's just swell."

Dean kept the angelic blade hefted in his hands and waited; if Gabriel decided to turn nasty there wasn't a damned thing he could do. That little oil trap trick was all well and good but it wasn't exactly portable, so Dean had nothing on the smug fucker, just his reflexes and this one blade. He was pretty much fucked, honestly, and he knew it. "Really enjoyed cleaning up your family's mess. It was peachy. How the hell are you even here? Last time I saw you, you managed to get yourself chalk outlined, didn't you?" he asked, still wary, still very much pissed that an archangel, of all things, would stoop--again, he had to remind himself--to impersonating a demonic baddy to get his attention.

The guy wasn't all bad, though--he'd shown up when it counted, really, and Cas certainly hadn't been happy about knowing him gone, regardless of whatever the hell had happened with that little duct tape experiment in TV land--so Dean slowly slid the angel blade in the back of his jeans; it was a show of good faith, and he'd never be quick enough to get to use it anyway. The smarmy little shit was probably still in hiding, for some reason, and that made Dean nervous. Because, dammit, this was supposed to be over; Lucifer was gone, the cage was closed good and tight and he'd been so sure he was done with all this crap.

"What d'you want now?" Dean finally managed, deflating a bit. "I swear, the scenery better not change on me, man. I'm not playing your little games today." He paused, frowned, glanced at Garth--who was probably getting confused as hell--and eventually gestured vaguely at Gabriel before crossing his arms a bit stiffly. "And get your sticky ass off my car."

“Is this how you treat me after I died for you? After I took on the devil for you?” Gabriel asked, tilting his head to the side. “And I can’t exactly dial you or your brother up on the telephone, can’t find you thanks to Castiel, so I had to do something to draw you out. So don’t you dare get lippy with me, boy.”

Gabriel’s eyes drifted to Garth. “Let’s talk somewhere alone,” he said, and with a snap of his fingers he and Dean where alone and in an endless field of yellow daisies. “Much better.” Gabriel nodded to himself. “And you can attack me with that angel blade; it won’t hurt an archangel. So if it makes you feel better you can stab me.”

“But after that I got something important to talk to you about. So hurry it up so I can attempt to make you understand a concept that’s way beyond your pay grade.” The archangel took another bite of his candy bar. “Way, way above your pay grade, kiddo. Sadly, you and your brother are probably the only humans that can understand this and help with it.”

Dean couldn't even find it in himself to be shocked when the motel and parking disappeared; he still spared a thought for his baby, because if she got fucked over by an angry angel or demon--again--that was honestly going to be it. A quick glance around this fresh new scenery confirmed that the dweeb hadn't followed, and for that at least he was grateful. This way he'd avoid having to spend an hour explaining what was going on. Small mercies.

He rolled his eyes, resisting the rising urge to do just as Gabriel was suggesting. "You don't look dead to me, pal. And my brother took a japanese game show to the balls for you, so don't give me that shit," he shot back, looking warily around them both. If this was heaven--as it probably was--it gave Dean the creeps something fierce; it was too perfect, too bland, too much like a painting.

Plus, way too flowery, though he wasn't surprised the flashy archangel had gone for daisies and he hoped to hell this angel wouldn't have any qualms about digging in his head a bit, because he really was enjoying the mental image of Gabriel prancing around in the flowers like an asshat. Certainly took him down a peg or two, at least mentally.

"You know, the whole 'almighty immortal beings needing the mudmonkeys' help to save the world' spiel really got old months ago," he griped, gesturing with his empty hands to show good faith, even if really just wanted to get the hell out of there ASAP. "Don't tell me, you guys lost another batch of WMDs? Guerrilla warfare up there and it's bleeding down here again? Aliens abducted God?"

He knew, of course, what this was about, but something about the short angel had always both amused and annoyed him, which was exactly his current mood. He was, in fact, half tempted to call up Cas and leave them to discuss whatever the hell Gabriel had to say. "I'm no longer anyone's possible angel condom. Why do you even need my help?" he said instead, eyes flickering to the surrounding landscape as though he could will himself back home.

“I was dead, then I came back. Seems to happen a lot around you mutton head Winchesters,” Gabriel said with a shrug. “Lucifer shanked me with my own sword, the dick. I probably have a scar, not that you can see it.” The archangel looked around and then focused on Dean. 

“Listen, Dean, I don’t really want to be telling you about this but I gotta. I’m going to pummel uncle Raphy into behaving and pin down Azrael and make him see sense. But until then you and your brother—and my brother whom you either need to bone or stop leading on before the poor guy rips out his grace for you—need to track several somethings down for heaven.”

“Before you ask, angels can’t track them down; they’ll kill us the moment we touch them. Sucks out our grace like we’re juice boxes, so we need nice, normal—or as close to normal as we can find—humans to do it.” Gabriel bounced on the tips of his toes, seemingly deep in thought. “They also are not weapons. They’re keystones to Lucifer’s jail cell. If one of them gets destroyed there’s a chance he and Michael can wriggle out.”

Gabriel pursed his lips and looked around them. “So, unless you want Raphael or some demon to find out about them and destroy one. Then of course we’d all be back to square one, Lucifer ready to shimmy back into Sammy’s melon and Michael eyeing you like a fifty dollar suit. It’s your choice after all. Daddy did give you guys free will.”

Shocked, staring in bemused horror at the archangel, Dean could only blink dumbly for a few seconds. He thought for a moment this was the first time he'd been speechless in years, the first time he'd been completely freaking unable to think up a witty retort. Because, really, what was there to say when some near stranger correctly guessed you were trying to bang their bro? Dean would know, actually; God knew, he'd given more than a few chicks a withering look now and then when Sammy had been growing up.

He'd never gone as far as suggesting they'd 'just bone him already', though. And, fuck, how did Gabriel even know? "Okay, okay, okay. Back the fuck up, did you just say... Did you just..." And then part of his brain shot down, because he was suddenly reminded of the flickering, then exploding lights, the way the TV had flickered brightly and Sammy's face, as he told them of waking up with his own little light show. 

As he stood there, staring in mounting horror at the archangel, he realized Cas might as well have been broadcasting for all he knew. This was just too mortifying to contemplate, so instead he scowled and pointed accusingly at Gabriel. "Stay out of my freaking head, dude. I swear, it's like a damned obsession with you guys," he muttered before finally allowing himself to think about everything else Gabriel had said, everything he hadn't wanted to hear, still didn't want to believe.

For a moment he knew he wouldn't survive this, not twice, not already grasping at edges so he wouldn't fall backwards onto the rack he knew existed only in his memories. He was already fraying and he just knew if all this shit started again, he simply wouldn't last, not another time, not with the possibility of it happening, again, in front of his eyes. Watching Sammy fall down that pit, watching Lucifer wearing his body like a freaking meat suit, his face all wrong, that freakish, self-satisfied smirk on his brother's face, he simply couldn't stomach it again.

After a few seconds Dean took a deep, trembling breath and released it in an uncertain hiss. "You know what, fuck you," he breathed, closing his eyes briefly. "Fuck you, and fuck your little quest." He paused, one hand clenching into a fist at his side. "But we haven't got a choice, whatever you say, so yeah, I guess you'll have your little human tools." He stepped closer, frowning, staring down at Gabriel and trying not to break down. "I'm telling you, though, I'm not sacrificing Sammy again just to solve your problems, featherbrains."

“I’m not asking you to sacrifice Sam again. The keystones are harmless to humans,” Gabriel said with a sigh. “Look, Dean. I’m not here to give you another celestial ultimatum; if there was a different way, I’d go for it. It’s not exactly comforting for me to have to tell you about them.”

“Now, will you relax so I can explain this?” the archangel asked as he crumpled up his candy wrapper and tossed it away. He felt for the Winchesters, he really did, and if he could have he would have just let them be so they didn’t have to deal with all the madness anymore. He’d tried—emphasis on tried—to teach Sam to break the cycle, but it hadn’t worked and now they’d drawn one of his brothers into their madness. Not that he blamed Castiel for being drawn; these two boys were impudent little shits. 

He sighed again and gestured for Dean to follow him. “Now, I know you saw the Sigil of Metatron, and you have no idea who or what Metatron is. I’m pretty sure he’s the one that brought me back and gave the order for me to tell you about all this. Metatron is the High Seraph. Sometimes people call him the lesser Yowah. He’s literally the voice of God in heaven. When he’s awake.” The Archangel had set off strolling across the field and just expected Dean to have followed. He paused his explanation waiting for questions.

"Fine," Dean muttered as he watched the sailing arc of the crumpled candy wrapper, snorting to himself, walking sulkily behind Gabriel. The candy wrapper was twelve kinds of uncanny and wrong here, sitting like a massive dog turd against the endless fields of wherever the hell they were. He numbly wondered how much trouble you could get into for littering in heaven as he walked.

Gabriel's reasons didn't much interest him, not anymore. He couldn't care, not this time; he'd do exactly the job that was required in order to avoid disaster and not one bit more. He'd keep Sammy safe and, if possible, completely away from all of this. And he'd stopped giving a shit about who was who upstairs 'round about the time he figured out most angels were complete dicks. A small bonus; at least Zachariah, that disgusting little jerk face, wouldn't be around this time. Hopefully.

"I don't suppose you give a shit, man, but I don't really care what's happening, here," he answered as soon as Gabriel stopped talking and turned towards him. "So you've got another daddy figure missing, I'm not surprised." He sighed. "Apparently this Metatron guy could've been helpful but he's chosen not to show up. Again, no surprise there. And hey, while I'm all tingly inside that you're back," Dean added, voice dripping with sarcasm, "I really don't see all this being helpful.

"Just point me towards the stones and I'll get you your insurance against that cage opening up again. That's all I need to know." A quick job, with some luck--though Dean was pretty sure that had deserted them years ago--, and if they could get away with a swift in-and-out sort of thing, grab the stones or whatever they were and... Well, he wasn't sure what to do with them, honestly. Surely having them all in one place would be riskier than them being scattered. 

Which raised an actual, important question. "How many of these things do we even need to hunt down? Because I gotta admit, I have the best fucking pie waiting for me at Bobby's and I'd really like to get to eat it before all this explodes in our faces."

“And you need to understand what’s going on. So you don’t keep side swiped by anything. So pay attention,” Gabriel said, reaching back and hauling Dean towards him. “Metatron isn’t absent, he’s asleep. Which for angels is more like hibernation than sleep. He seems to be waking up, and when he does he’s either going to start cleaning house or spout some wisdom from Daddy.” The archangel clapped Dean on the shoulder, propelling him forwards a few more steps.

“That sigil is the base work for Lucifer’s cage, and there are thirteen keystones. It took the life force of six archangels and their vessels to make that cage and seal Lucifer in it the first time. There are seven lesser key stones, one for each of the human vessels involved. Six for the archangels.” He flicked his wrist and was holding some sort of round metal disk. “This will help you find them.”

He wiggled it at Dean, waiting for him to take it from him. The metal of the disk was warm and one side was engraved with some sort of map. “Castiel will be able to read that. Any questions?”

Dean bristled when Gabriel snagged his jacket and nearly spit in his face, but he knew he was way outside his jurisdiction up here—wherever here was—and mostly rolled with it, stumbling along as the archangel spoke, trying to commit everything he said to memory. Keystones, gates to Lucifer’s cage, a massive shitstorm of heavenly proportions about to land on them all, again. He couldn’t quite keep the scowl off his face as he turned and Gabriel fixed him with a look, a serious one, which looked really out of place on the guy’s face, considering half the time there was a very confident smirk there, sitting in its place.

“I, okay. Magical heaven stones, big ritual, Lucifer’s cage,” he mumbled, stumbling along, trying to keep his thoughts clear. “You’re… suggesting we go after these. Jesus, what makes you think they’ll be safer with us? If you shitheads are asking, then that means…” He stopped, ran Gabriel’s words through his brain process again. It meant that the guys upstairs couldn’t reach out for these stones. It meant that only humans could.

It meant that, for once, they’d have insurance. Dean cleared his throat and nodded. “I have enough questions to fill a goddamned bucket, pal, but for now, you can just answer this one; what happens once we fulfill your little quest? What happens to Sam and Cas—Castiel, and me?” he asked, stepping away from the archangel warily. “We just hand ‘em over? Because that ain’t happening, pal. You want us in on this, you’re gonna have to share intel at some point. I’m not playing second fiddle again. For anyone.”

And then, because he couldn’t, would never even dare pretend that he wouldn’t fight, he reached up and gingerly took the metallic disk from Gabriel’s outstretched hand. It felt like old iron and dust in his hand, ordinary and normal in this place where nothing else was. There were symbols etched along its perimeter which meant nothing to Dean, but there’d be time enough later on to try and decipher them.

He glanced up at Gabriel, frowning. “So what’s in this for you? I mean, really… You’ve been looking out for numero uno since the get-go. I’m just guessing here, but I don’t think you’re helping out of the goodness of your—“ And then he stopped, because as cheesy and shameless as Casa Erotica had been, it hadn’t been anything but for Sam and Dean’s benefit, hadn’t meant anything to anyone except themselves. If it had been in bad taste, well, Dean supposed that could be excused, because he himself was nothing but a collection of bad tastes; still, Gabriel had helped, where it counted, and he found himself silent, staring at the disk in his hand in sullen apprehension.

“You know what? Never mind,” he added as he pocketed the disk. “Just… Yeah, I’ll help. I don’t know why, but I’ll help.” He shot Gabriel an uncertain glare. “Don’t make this a habit, though. You’re still an ass, in my book.”

“The keystones can’t go up to heaven, it would be… a catastrophe if even one made its way up there. I certainly don’t want you to hand them over to anyone when you find them. All I want is for you guys to get them before whomever is trying to take over hell or Raphael does. After that’s all cleared up, hide them again, chuck them into the ocean, I don’t care what you do with them as long as they are out of reach or guarded.” Gabriel shrugged. “You’ll be glad to learn that Demons will get sucked up just like Angels will if they touch one.”

“And there’s nothing ‘in this’ for me. I can’t disobey the voice of God anymore than the rest of my brothers,” he said, giving Dean a long look. “That’s completely beside the point anyways. Castiel will be able to decipher that.” 

He raised his hand ready to snap and send Dean away. “Thank you for agreeing to do this, Dean,” he said before snapping his fingers and sending Dean back to Bobby’s rather than back to Garth. 

“Yeah well I—…” Dean frowned, stepping away from Gabriel out of reflex, because he just knew what was coming. “I have no intention of—Shit,” he added as the clearing blinked away in a haze of weird colours. He had time to blink once and then the familiar landscape of Bobby’s yard came back to him in sharp focus. “Freakin’ angels,” he muttered half-heartedly. 

Happily, the Impala seemed safe and sound and, above all, present, so Dean turned and stalked back past Bobby’s porch and into his house. His mind swimming with yet another curveball, he made his way almost straight to the fridge before Sam intercepted him.

“What the hell? You were only gone for half an hour, Dean.”

“What?” It’d seemed like much longer, but Dean was past trying to figure out the inner workings of heaven and hell. “I met with freaking Gabriel when I reached our inner-geek. Apparently mister freaking-zombie-archangel had a lot to say,” he said.

Sammy’s eyebrows shot up, disappearing nearly past his hairline. “Gabriel? Gabriel the archangel who died going against Lucifer?”

“The very same. Apparently we have to locate… Jesus, there’s like a bunch of keystones or what have you that we have to find.” He rolled his eyes. “Of course neither angels nor demons can touch ‘em, so we,” he gestured towards Sam, then at himself, “have to somehow find them and net ‘em before whoever’s barking the order on all these loose fallen angels gets a clue.”

And yes, it sounded unlikely even to Dean’s ears, but that was the gist of it. Sam didn’t seem convinced. “And then what?” he asked.

“I don’t fucking know. And then we avoid a repeat incident. And then the world explodes. Does it matter?”

Sam pursed his lips, eyebrows drawn into a thin line. “Did Gabriel say—“

“Gabriel didn’t say anything, man. When did they start ever saying anything? I got a mystical stone CD for my troubles,” Dean shot back, reaching into his pocket and throwing the disk onto the nearby table. “It’s not even close to an explanation, but it’s all I got, right now.”

Bobby looked up at Dean from where he was sitting at the kitchen table reading through something on Metatron. “You mean Gabriel the archangel that was pretending to be a trickster?” he asked, picking up the disk and turning it over in his hands. It was still strangely warm to the touch.

“So he wants us to hunt down a bunch of magic keystones. He tell you how many we gotta find?” The older hunter turned the disk over in his hands, inspecting the runes on it. 

There was a rustle of air and Castiel was back, looking a bit more otherworldly than normal. “Gabriel is alive,” he said with a frown. “I just saw him in heaven.” He looked around the room. “I take it that the trickster you went after was Gabriel.” He blinked owlishly at them all.

Dean sneered--an ugly grimace, but he felt better for letting his frustration seep out--and flopped into the nearest chair. Sammy shot him an inquisitive look, 'the hell is wrong with you?', but he dismissed his brother's increasingly puckered brow and pursed lips with a wave of one hand and a grunt. The archangel was annoying at the best of times, like running into a hyperactive nuclear reactor that had somehow developed a personality; running into him now when he was already pissed--and when his mind kept returning to one particularly distracting angel--hadn't done anything for Dean's mood.

He turned towards Bobby, eyeing the stone disc with no small amount of mistrust. "Thirteen, apparently. Nice, even, lucky number," he muttered sarcastically. "Ain't nothing could possibly go wrong with this. Walk in the park." He dimly wondered if Bobby would mind if he raided the old hunter's liquor cabinet, then shook his head and sighed. Couple hours' worth of tinkering on the Impala should achieve the same goal anyway.

Castiel's arrival wasn't unexpected, yet the angel still managed to surprise the hell out of Dean when he popped up behind his chair, raising just enough wind to send a few loose sheets covered in weird writings flying up from Bobby's desk and straight into Dean's face. He twitched, startled, and twisted in his chair to scowl up at as Cas as Sam snorted loudly next to them.

"Yeah, the trickster was Gabriel alright. I probably got cavities by association, now," Dean answered, dismayed to realize that Castiel had gone into full-on angelic business mode. This was Castiel, not Cas, and for some reason Dean found the scowl stuck firmly on his face.

"I think I'm gonna go and dig through your books, Bobby. See if I can't find anything about these keystones," Sam said into the silence, shooting a meaningful glance at the disc Dean had brought back as he got up and made his way out of the room.

God, the kid was still about as subtle as a bull sometimes. Dean shook his head and stretched, plucking the stone disc up from the table and pulling it upwards. He turned it, angled it towards Castiel's face so the angel could see, but didn't get up. 

"Your bro gave me this. Told me you'd know what it means, but the gist of it is we're going after some thirteen magical stones because they were used in the ritual to build Lucifer's cage. I..." Dean hesitated, staring at the stone disc in his outstretched hand. "I'm not sure how much I want to tell Sammy. I figured we'd gotten rid of Lucifer, for good." Liar, he thought, because he'd known that wasn't true. But it was too soon, way too soon for this to rise up again, like the fabled bad prawns at the end of the night. Too soon, when they hadn't even had a chance to rest.

It would always be too soon anyway for Sammy, as far as Dean was concerned.

Castiel tilted his head and looked at the stone disk for a moment before leaning forward and reaching for it. He took the disk from Dean’s hand carefully and with an expression of distant interest. Even so, he allowed his fingers to brush against Dean’s hand briefly as he did so. It appeared to be a completely accidental touch, except there was no such thing when it came to angels.

“Sam probably will find nothing on them in any book,” he said, turning the disk in his hands and inspecting it. “Very few angels even know about the keystones. The odds that mortals know anything are… if not completely zero, finite enough not to matter.” He tilted his head back and forth as he moved the disk around, inspecting it.

“They were not used in the ritual to build Lucifer’s cage, Dean,” he corrected almost absently. “They are a bi-product of it. The crystallized essence of those who helped build it, immortalized in stone to insure that the cage could not be tampered with.” He’d seen the keystones once. Right after the cage had been built. 

The memory of the unnatural tug at his grace from each of them made the angel shiver and frown a bit. They sucked energy out of the world around them like vacuums. “The keystones are… disturbing to be in the presence of for anything living,” he said absently. “Even humans can sense their… draining effect. I do not like the idea of you going after them but it is for the best.”

Bobby didn’t miss the accidental on purpose touch but chose to ignore it. The two idjits would come to terms with each other on their own; if not he’d beat them both for being idjits. “You’re saying there are thirteen of these things, and people died to make them?” he asked, watching the angel as he inspected the disk.

“Six angels and seven humans perished when Lucifer’s cage was created and he was sealed away. The ritual to create the cage was surprisingly easy, considering,” Castiel said, looking up from the disk.

“Considering it was meant to lock the devil up forever,” Bobby stated with a snort. “Any idea what the keystones look like?”

“Crystal structures about a pound in weight for the seven humans, the six others will be smaller. They appear to be gem stones but are unbreakable.” Castiel looked back at the disk and held it flat in his hand for a moment.

Dean released the disc as soon as Castiel's hand wrapped around it, but he couldn't quite suppress a faint shiver when he felt fingers brush against his own; he was probably imagining it, but he could almost feel something then, like the light spark he sometimes got when he went around shuffling his feet on a carpet and reached for a favourite shirt, a tiny pinprick of something that definitely fell into the category of ridiculous chick-flick moment.

He frowned and quickly dropped his hand, but there was absolutely nothing on Bobby's damned table with which to occupy himself as a distraction. He drummed his fingers restlessly on its surface instead, trying to act attentive as Castiel spoke. Regardless, he must've been caught staring, because he saw Bobby glance his way, in a very pointed way which clearly suggested something had been noticed. Dean cleared his throat just as Sam returned.

"That's pretty much what Gabriel said, in a nutshell," he said, eyeing Sam warily.

"Thanks for telling me, Dean," his brother retorted, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

Dean sighed. "Oh, shut up. You know about it anyway, so what does it matter?"

Sam looked like he was going to add something for a while, and for a few seconds it seemed as if Dean had broken whatever trust they'd managed to find again before he saw his brother deflate and concede the point; he might bitch and whine, but apparently guilt still ran deep enough that he'd let Dean get away with his--probably annoying by now--big brother act. And if he was still a bit wary of fully trusting Sam, well... Nobody needed to know that.

"What do we now?" Sammy asked, pulling up a chair across from Dean and Bobby. "We hunt these stones down and hope we get them all before any demons manage to find them? They'll likely be going after the same things we are."

"So? We get there first, we snag the pretty crystals, the demons bitch and life goes back to 'normal'," Dean answered, air quoting the word normal with exaggerated care before turning back towards Castiel. "Things upstairs... They're okay? I mean, we can manage a race against one side, but if we gotta worry about both demons and rogue angels tailing us, it changes the game a bit."

There wasn't much hope in his voice, though, because things had never been simple before, or at least, things hadn't been simple for a damned long while. "I don't trust Gabriel," he added. "Not even as far as I can throw him, puny as he looks. No offence, Cas, but your big bro has sort of bitten us in the ass a few times. Can we actually trust this psycho-new-age crystal stuff to lead us the right way or is Gabriel actually trying to kickstart Heaven's little Apocalypse re-enactment here?" He didn't say that Zachariah had basically put them through the wringer with the exact same do-gooder act, because everyone in the room knew that story.

They had little reason to trust any angel, really, and the fact that he was relying so damned heavily on one--even though Cas was different--didn't escape Dean's notice.

Castiel frowned and fixed Dean a disapproving look. “Gabriel is more trustworthy than Azrael,” he said, still looking over the disk. “I believe he is going to attempt to find out who is leading the Fallen before handling Raphael. He was not pleased to be drafted back into the host like this. But apparently Metatron is waking enough to influence… many things outside himself.”

Castiel understood why they didn’t trust his brothers. They had good reason to mistrust them all, himself included. He had lied—was lying by omission right now about Crowley and purgatory—to them. “Demons cannot touch the keystones either. They’ll get sucked in just as fast as an angel. You should have very little competition to retrieve them from that front.” He set the disk down on the table and carefully pressed his index finger to the side.

He sent a little pulse of energy into the disk which lit up briefly, vibrated against the table and went silent. “That,” Castiel said tapping the face of the disk with his index finger. “Is a map. If I’m correct it will react to the keystones and the face of it shows the location of the closest one.” He looked around at the humans his expression still unhappy. “The fact that Metatron is waking up now is…distressing,” he admitted.

“What exactly to you mean waking up? Angels don’t sleep,” Bobby said, looking between Castiel and the disk.

“We don’t sleep like humans do. But on occasion we—the closest thing to it would be hibernation though that’s not exactly correct. We are aware of what’s going on around us but unable to react.” Castiel shrugged slightly. “It goes on for centuries. Metatron hasn’t been awake since the last time we walked the earth.”

“Care to tell us more about this Metatron fellow?” Bobby asked, frowning and trying to figure out why Castiel looked so disturbed by the thought of another Angel waking up. “We know he’s the high Seraph, but that’s about it.”

“Metatron is unique among angels. He once was Enoch, a prophet of the lord and a great Teacher, a Righteous man. Because of his wisdom and Righteous soul and the part he took in the tragedy of some of the fallen angels, God shared with him many secrets and made him second only to Himself.” The angel had picked his words very carefully because he had no firsthand knowledge of it.

Dean sighed, watching the exchange as Bobby and Castiel discussed potential allies and drafted a very, very rough draft of a plan. It didn't much matter; they had nothing else to go on, and he knew that whatever was happening was big. He didn't like it, not one bit, but what else was there to do? Suddenly they had something to chase, something bad and gnarly that could probably rip another hole in the shitcake that was earth.

There really wasn't much choice; if Castiel had said they'd have to fight both demons and rogue angels tooth and nails to get to these keystones, Dean would still have followed the road set in front of him.

He simply would have bitched about it a whole lot more.

And that was it, in a nutshell; there was a job, and they had to do it. It was bigger and more convoluted than he would've liked but, hey, when had life even thrown them a bone? He very pointedly ignored Castiel's words about Metatron and that whole Righteous Man spiel, because it felt stupidly familiar and he was starting to think that Heaven's winged little helpers were in the habit of throwing that word around a lot more loosely than Dean was comfortable with. He had utterly no idea how anyone could think him righteous in any way whatsoever.

"Okay, so we got ourselves a bona fide map to pour over." He got up, wincing as his body protested--probably all that being zapped around, he'd have to have words with mister blond and snarky archangel about that later--and pushed away from the table, glancing at the stone disc with no small amount of distaste. "Anybody else thinks this feels too easy? No? Just me, then."

Sam snorted, looking about ready to either hurl or fall asleep. Dean thought he wasn't the only one to be tired of shuffling around on Heaven's leash; God, when he finally showed up, would have a freaking lot to answer for. "Thanks for jinxing it, Dean."

"Anytime, princess."

Sammy just rolled his eyes. "I'm... I think I should sit this one out. Maybe try and help from the sidelines," he said, suddenly avoiding Dean's gaze.

"You what? Why the hell...?"

"You heard Cas. Demon blood." Sam gesturing to himself. "I don't want to risk... I'm not sure I want to find out what happens if I approach one of these things now. Maybe nothing. Maybe a lot. I just... don't want..."

And Dean understood, as much as it freaked him out to consider it; he'd thought Sammy had been clean, once. But then it had happened again, and he'd faced the screams coming from the safe room, again. He couldn't even stomach the thought of it now, much less risk it all happening again because some damned powered-up stone got Sammy tripping on demon blood or clicked with something inside him or whatever the hell these things did. 

"I get it, man. It's... cool if you sit this one out. Me and Cas can handle ourselves out there, right?" Dean finally said, shooting Castiel a slightly pleading look. Can't do this again. Don't make us do this again.

Castiel’s mouth tightened unhappily. If he could save them from this he would, he tried to let that show in his expression. He sighed and was tempted for a moment to go pitch a fit in heaven about asking too much of them again. “If I could spare you all this, I would. This is too much to ask of you again. But you... are the only ones that can do this. The only ones capable of doing this that are trustworthy,” he said quietly, looking down at the disk then up at Dean.

“I am sorry that you keep getting dragged into battles that you shouldn’t even be aware of, let alone become so critical to us.” He was sure Sam would be fine around the stones but understood why he wanted to stay back from them. “Sam, I am quite sure the keystones won’t affect you adversely. They feed on energy; whatever demon blood you may still carry should not react to it.”

“Energy?” Bobby asked. “Like your angel mojo and souls?”

Castiel nodded. “Yes, but the human soul is… contained by its very nature in a way that prevents things from draining it. Where angelic grace, and demonic power are not.” He cast about for an explanation that would fit. “Angelic grace—and to a smaller extent demonic power—they’re like waterfalls, lots of power and energy that can be directed but just as much of it wasted. The stones are like dry sponges that suck up water. But human souls are an aquifer, same sort of energy but untouchable unless something extreme is done. That’s not a perfect analogy but it’s as close as I can come without going into complex explanations and equations.”

Dean watched his brother almost sag against the table, but he still managed a faint, half-hearted smirk and a low mutter of 'Gonna have to suck it up, then, princess,' which only caused Sam to glare daggers at him. He shot Castiel what he hoped would pass as a level stare and shrugged. "Hey, we weren't expecting a freaking retirement plan here. Don't get your panties in a twist over it, Cas."

Sammy, predictably, scrunched up his nose and shot him a look so full of brotherly dislike he couldn't help but grin. At least Sam wasn't scowling; Dean could take a lot of ridiculous jibes if it meant his brother's spirits remained high. "So if Sam's been okayed for this road trip, I think I'm gonna crash early. We can leave as soon as you want to go after these things, but right now, I've just got my ass zapped I have no idea where, I need a shower, I need food and I need to sleep," Dean said as he walked around the table.

"You guys'll probably keep planning into the night, but I'm down for the count. Holler if you need me." And with that he was out of the room, though he did manage a slight wave at Sam, and he let his eyes linger probably a bit too long on Castiel, because Sammy shot him a look so full of shocked horror his eyebrows nearly reached his hairline. It was easy, and comfortable, and Dean figured there were worst ways to spend his days than shocking his brother and prodding a certain angel to see him twitch.

Much worst ways. He shuffled upstairs towards his room with a certain spring in his step, and it was only when he reached the door that he realized he hadn't even entertained the notion of drowning all of this new madness in booze and cheap women. Getting soft, probably, but he could hardly help it; he wouldn't allow himself anything in public, but in the few minutes Cas had stood there, all prim and helpful and wise, his palms had been itching to feel skin.

And what his mouth had craved hadn't been alcohol, not in the least. "Going fucking insane in your old age, Winchester," he muttered to himself as he closed the door. Couple weeks ago he would've called for what he termed a drinking binge and what Sammy insisted on calling research. And now he was fleeing, mostly because he was pissed and tired, but--and this his brain kept insisting trumped the 'mostly' part--also because he couldn't stand being near Cas and not having that easy friendship, that sense that Cas was his angel first and foremost, that he should be the focus of some near-immortal being's attention instead of some unimportant stone relic.

Even if said relic was probably their ticket out of another apocalypse. Fuck, he was doomed, driving way too fast down a road he'd never seen. And he had no idea where he was going.

Downstairs, Sam managed a half-breathed "Huh, okay," as he watched his brother leave. He turned back towards Castiel and managed a slight shrug. "I trust you on this, Cas. And I know Dean does, too. Don't read too much into that just now. I think he's..." He frowned, then smiled, the expression shaky on his face. "You know, tired. I thought he'd found something good with Lisa there, for a while, but... He may not say it, but he's grateful for the help. We both are," he added, hovering uncertainly at Castiel's side before picking up the stone disc from the table.

"I'm going to try and see where this leads. At least this time we have a map. We've never had a map before." 

Castiel watched Dean leave and had to fight the urge to trail after him, had to overcome the urge to hover over Dean protectively. Dean didn’t really need his protection, so instead he turned his attention to planning things with Sam and Bobby. 

“I can see how a map would prove advantageous more often than not,” he said with a distantly amused look at Sam. “And I have no doubt that some sleep and time will help Dean with his… distress.” He said that more for himself than to comfort Sam. 

Bobby grunted and retrieved a map from his study. “Let's map out where everything is on something bigger than a cell phone and go from there," the older hunter said, spreading the map over his kitchen table. 

Mapping out all the locations of the Key stones took several hours, and by the end of it Castiel resorted to cheating and using his angel mojo to strongly suggest to both Bobby and Sam they should sleep. Telepathically suggesting things to humans wasn’t draining but they would realize they had been urged to sleep by an outside force in the morning. He took a moment to check in on Dean and found him asleep.

The angel took several moments to simply watch Dean sleep before taking himself elsewhere. The urge to ensure Dean ate well and things he enjoyed was… awkward and interesting. Castiel had never paid much attention to food of any sort other than mild interest in the amount Dean shovelled into his mouth on a daily basis. But he knew that food was source of comfort for Dean, something that he could understand.

So he waited until right about the time he knew Dean would be waking up and returned to Dean’s room shortly before the man woke up with a tray laden with food. He set the tray on the bedside table. The tray held a plate piled high with thick, crisp, golden brown Belgium waffles topped with whipped cream and strawberries. A cup of strong black coffee and side of crispy bacon accompanied them. He made sure there was more of the same down in the kitchen for Bobby and Sam, though that was left in a simpler arrangement than what Dean got. 

When Dean woke--he judged it to be still early morning, the light of the rising sun casting familiar shadows in Bobby's guest room--he did so slowly, again, stretching lazily against the warm softness of the bed underneath him. He could remember a few harrowing dreams but they were distant, like something glimpsed from far away, and easily chased away by the early morning light. 

And something else, too, he realized as his senses slowly kicked in. "Bobby? Since when d'you bake?" he muttered, still half awake, his face pressed against his pillow. His words came out slurred with sleep though, and probably too soft for anyone outside his room to hear. Bobby didn't do breakfast, not like what Dean smelled now anyway. His nose more or less propelled him upright, and by the time he was aware enough to actually see anything he was freaking ravenous, because he hadn't smelled anything like this in years.

When he finally managed to fix his eyes on the bedside table, both his stomach and his throat managed to vocally make themselves known; a low-pitched groan almost--not quite, but almost--eclipsed his rumbling gut as he stared in bemused shock at the laden tray beside his bed.

There were waffles. And whipped cream. And strawberries. And something that looked suspiciously like real maple syrup; not the store-bought, shitty and too-sweet imitation sort, but the real deal. He blinked, reached up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked around the clearly empty room, uncertain what he was expecting.

There was no-one there, and Jesus did that plate ever beckon. Dean hadn't often had cause to use the word 'beckon' before, but that was exactly the right occasion to dust it off and use it. And--God, something within him died, rolled over and begged--there was even bacon on that platter, dripping with fat and smelling like sin incarnate. And coffee. He could've wept, if he weren't so damned confused as to how this all had happened.

Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, he reached out, grabbed the tray and plonked it carefully onto his lap as he settled back against the headboard. This new quest could wait a few minutes; he had no idea how this waffle smorgasbord had happened--Castiel, it had to be, not even Sam could whip this together on a dime--but he sure as hell was going to enjoy it, and stretch it out, and wallow in it for as long as he could.

He made quick work of the waffles and the cream and strawberries and was only starting to dig into the bacon when he took a careful sip of the coffee. It was dark, and bitter and nutty on his tongue, black as sin and completely required this morning. He sighed, put the tray away and grudgingly got out of bed. The coffee would--hopefully--kick in in a minute, but until then he could wander around like a headless, dazed chicken. The house was silent around him, so Dean took a chance and made his way lazily towards the upstairs bathroom.

It was empty, Sam probably not up yet and Bobby hopefully far away downstairs, so Dean stepped in, shrugged out of his clothes and allowed himself the luxury of actually adjusting the water temperature before stepping into the shower stall. Bobby's upstairs bathroom was a bit rough around the edges--nobody ever used it but he and Sam, Dean figured--but it was bliss itself, and he waited in a happy, brainless haze until the entire room filled up with steam before stepping inside the shower stall.

Castiel lingered downstairs until he heard Dean moving around upstairs. He just missed him in the bedroom but he saw that Dean had cleaned his plate. That pleased him more than he expected it to. Perhaps someday he would attempt cooking things himself rather than just conjuring them. It seemed like it could be a worthwhile talent to have.

He wandered towards the bathroom and listened to the sounds of Dean shuffling around inside. Dean had invited him to join once before, that didn’t mean it would happen again. He didn’t even know what he was doing allowing himself to want such things. He knew that Gabriel knew about this, whatever it was. He knew because Gabriel had been terribly smug when he’d seen him in Heaven.

He leaned against the door and sighed. He was so out of his depth and, as Dean would put it, screwed. He’d already admitted out loud—to Dean--that he wanted to pursue things with him. Which he did. Which he shouldn’t want so badly. But he’d found his mind wandering upstairs to were Dean slept when mapping things out with Sam and Bobby. The urge to simply wander upstairs and curl up with Dean had been… strong.

It didn't take long at all for the shower to turn into something more, the hot water relaxing and pleasant after the massive indulgence of a breakfast fit for a king. Dean might've been a little pissed that he was reduced to this again, a quick wank in a shower not his own, as though he was a freaking teenager again, running high on hormones and low on guts. He managed to pull a short and dirty little climax from his dick, nothing extraordinary, nothing actually good, but he'd been doing this for so long he barely had any room left to care anymore.

When he came out of the shower, damp and somewhat unsatisfied but at least a little more awake, he wrapped a towel around his waist and padded back out into the corridor, leaving a mess of dribbling water in his wake. Bumping straight into Castiel was a surprise, though it shouldn't have been; you'd think he'd be used to the angel popping into existence by now. He found himself just a few inches too close when he realized Cas was there, but couldn't bring himself to care.

This was bad, twelve kinds of bad, because Castiel's face--angular and strange at once, both human and not, with that little infuriating dip under his lower lip--had pretty much been the only thing his mind had managed to conjure up as fantasy material in the shower. He still didn't step back, the breakfast enough of a pleasant memory to drive away thoughts of his own stupidity about falling too hard, too fast.

"Mornin', Cas," he drawled, mildly aware he was probably standing in the middle of a tiny lake over the hardwood floors as he spoke. "You wouldn't believe what I found on my bedside table when I woke up." Conspiratorial, his tone was, like he was sharing a private joke with Sammy; only this was better, more raw, and it made his chest tighten worryingly to realize that there was a furious want for Cas to be happy, to laugh, behind nearly everything he said now.

Castiel found himself jostled slightly by Dean then had the hunter well inside his ‘personal space’. Not that he cared in the least. He had never cared how far or how close Dean was to him before. Currently, the closer he was the better, but that didn’t mean he would change his behavior to seek that closeness out… much. He found himself smiling slightly and enjoying the faint clean smell of Dean.

“Good morning, Dean,” he murmured back, letting his tone drop to an approximation of Dean’s conspiratorial tone. “And what did you find on your bedside table?” he asked, maintaining a completely innocent expression as if he had had no part in it. 

Never mind the deep desire he had to urge Dean back into the steamy bathroom and see if his skin tasted as good as he smelled. He had very little doubt that Dean would go right along with that which was... pleasing. Because it signified a level of trust there was between him. That made him nervous because he didn’t deserve that sort of trust. 

"What did I--... Jesus, now you're pulling my leg, Cas," Dean muttered, his face flickering halfway between confused and happy; Castiel had only ever played the devious card once, when everything had wheeled on making sure Chuck survived the day. This of course was nothing like that. There was no deal-breaking life-or-death situation now, just the slightly dusty hallway of Bobby's second floor and Dean standing a bit too close, wearing little more than a couple yards of wet towel.

Still, he played along, because it was impossible not to, and because he'd always been rather bad at resisting the temptation of his own vices. He knew it was probably wrong, what he was doing, all this shameless flirting, but for the life of him he couldn't find the strength to stop. He rolled his eyes. "Oh, I don't know, only the best freaking waffles I've ever had. There were strawberries. And freaking whipped cream. And bacon." 

Dean chuckled, took one cautious step closer and more or less crowded against Cas, leaning in an exaggerated way against the wall for fake support. "Running your own bakery now, are you?" he drawled, just as the sound of Sammy shuffling up the stairs reached his ears. He met his brother's stare head on, unflinching this time, and shot Sam a brilliant grin as his brother froze.

"Oh my fucking God, really? This... I... Jesus, Dean, I just woke up."

"So did I. I got waffles, did you?"

Sam frowned, eyeing them both with a strange, closed-off expression on his face. Dean saw a brief flicker of smug happiness there for a moment before it was buried under traumatic disgust. "As a matter of fact I did. And strawberries." He paused. "Thanks, Cas. I'm just going to assume it was you, because it sure as hell wasn't Bobby's doing."

"They weren't burned to a crisp or fried, for one," Dean quipped, grin still plastered on his face. He was debating leaning away from the wall but Sammy seemed to relax, and when he heard the faintest hint of a chuckle he gave up.

"Thank God for that. I've had enough of those toasts. Next Christmas, Dean, Bobby needs a new toaster," Sam said as he--carefully and rather nervously--stepped past them to reach the bathroom.

"Too fucking true." And that was that, Sam disappearing out of sight as Dean huffed out something halfway between a nervous chuckle and a sigh. "So, uh..." He turned back towards Castiel, finally leaning away from the wall but not stepping back; he couldn't have done so if he'd tried, really. "Did you make progress on the map thing? You seemed..." To know how it worked, Dean thought. To know everything, really, except for what was important. His mind offered up the thought that he wasn't much better but he stamped it down firmly. He cleared his throat and hiked up the towel around his waist, though that was clearly a lost cause. "... I dunno, focused," he finished lamely.

In the bathroom behind them Sam almost wrestled out of his rumpled clothes, took one look at the mess Dean had made of the shower stall and scowled. "Oh, for fuck's sake. No wonder he's all loose-limbed and happy. Jesus, fuck my life."

Castiel smiled slightly when Sam appeared; he’d been debating on leaning in and kissing Dean before that but the interruption was not unwelcome. “You’re welcome, Sam,” he said, listening to the brothers bicker about the state of Bobby’s toaster before Sam ducked into the bathroom.

“We have several maps of the locations plotted out,” he added as he carefully urged Dean into the guest room. “I apologize if my focus last night upset you in anyway.” He licked his lips, stepped closer to Dean and reached out to brush his fingers against his hip. Once he’d maneuvered Dean into the guest room he closed the door behind them.

“It’s difficult to know what you want at times, Dean,” he said almost conversationally. “You don’t like me ‘in your head’ as you put it so I try to keep myself from doing so. That makes it more difficult to know what to do.” He leaned closer so they were almost touching chest to chest.

Dean found himself gently but very firmly ushered back into the guest room, chuckling to himself at Sammy's dismayed cry from the bathroom. He figured he was getting pushed into the guest room to be told to get dressed already so they could be on their way. But Cas stepped in with him and closed the door, and something like panic ignited in Dean's chest.

A private talk away from Sam. He imagined what could've gone wrong, what Cas had likely discovered, and prepared himself to hear that there was a massive catch to the whole magic crystals thing that he had to know before they started out. And so he was steeling himself when the angel turned towards him and fixed him with a level stare. Dean must have been getting better at interpreting Castiel's wide range of fairly blank expressions though, because he could swear that it was neither concern nor regret that was dancing in Cas' wide blue eyes.

"I don't like you in my head because I don't like what's in there most of the time, Cas," he grunted back, eyebrows rising a bit as Castiel stepped closer, right past the boundary they'd established months and months ago as 'personal space'. Dean suddenly realized they should have added an 'in the case of towels' sub-clause, because from this close it was damned near impossible not to lean closer. There was that weird heat again, like warmth but different, and Dean figured it was probably just his brain trying to make sense of just what Castiel was under that human-looking skin.

He wasn't even aware of moving, didn't realize he had reached up and fisted a hand in Cas' already rumpled dress shirt to push him backwards until there was a wall against Castiel's back and he was pressing close. This was, he knew, a really, really, really stupid idea; the walls up here were ridiculously thin in these spare rooms and offices converted into guest rooms that weren't designed for privacy. But regardless of the fact that he'd just rubbed one out in the shower he couldn't stop himself from tugging the angel's coat open insistently and angling himself downwards to capture Castiel's lips.

This kiss was slow and leisurely, and he took his sweet time exploring the angel's mouth; because he was feeling downright lazy, he'd only had the one cup of coffee and the shower hadn't done much in the way of waking him up, really. By the time he released Castiel he was a bit breathless, and grinning cheekily at the angel. "You know what? That's not actually true. I gotta couple things lurking around my head I like," he said, fully aware that he was tenting the towel and not caring overmuch.

Castiel couldn’t help but smile slightly at Dean’s comment about not liking what was going on in his head most of the time. That was such a… human sentiment. Because he had never had to worry about that sort of thing, but he could understand why Dean’s memories of Hell haunted him. He wished there was a way from him to dull those memories, yet even if he could, something told him that Dean would not allow it.

He followed Dean’s lead and allowed himself to be pushed backwards against a wall. He chuckled lowly as Dean tugged his coat open and pressed closer. His arms found their way around Dean’s waist without him consciously deciding to put them there. He was content to let Dean lead the way with things like this. He wasn’t above instigating like he just had but for now Dean was wholly in command of what they were going to do.

When the kiss broke he licked his lips and found himself smiling back at Dean’s smug smirk. “Are there?” he asked, tilting his head and watching Dean with a great amount of interest. “And what would those thoughts that you like be?”

For a moment Dean forgot to breathe, voice slurring around a groan as Castiel all out flirted back. He was half naked and still wet and pressing against a freaking angel and--holy shit--Cas was totally on board with this. That pinpoint stare was still odd, a bit out of place and too focused, not human, but the rest of him seemed to lean towards Dean, Castiel's throat a line of tension as he tilted his head towards him.

Somehow he managed to find the balls--or the stupidity--to reach down, gently disentangle Castiel's hands from his waist and force his arms up until he could lean them against the wall and press closer. "I could swear you're just playin' dumb now, Cas. I'm thinking about getting you out of these damned clothes." His fingers twitched around Castiel's wrists and, this, right here, this holding down an angel because -he allowed it to happen-? Hottest thing Dean could imagine right this minute.

He leaned closer and went for the throat, sucking and nibbling at the edge of Castiel's jaw, a rough scrape of teeth against coarse stubble and this time there was nothing at all funny about the way Cas seemed incapable of wrapping his head around the idea of shaving. The angel's jaw was rough and prickly against Dean's lips and he found himself pressing bodily against him, sucking an earlobe between his teeth to cover another sharp sound, a low shivery thing that bubbled all the up from his gut and escaped as a moan.

"And I like the thought of rooms with doors that have freaking locks on 'em, and..." Dean released Castiel's ear and went back to his lips, because it was damn near impossible to stay away from them, even if the angel still seemed a bit uncertain about what to do with himself. And then of course his mouth ran off with him a bit, because he was sucking lightly on Castiel's bottom lip, and then peppering his mouth with quick, dirty kisses that were more tongue than anything else.

"And, God, yeah, this, right here." A quick bite on Castiel's lower lip, and Dean shivered. "Your lips, Cas, fuck, wrapped tight and warm and perfect 'round my dick. And you, riding me senseless 'till I can't freakin' breathe no more." He was babbling, interrupted frequently because he couldn't stop with the damned kissing, and he'd released Castiel's wrists some time ago apparently because he was now frantically pulling coat and jacket and shirt out of his way, unbuttoning every bit of plastic he could blindly find in his haste to touch skin again.

Castiel found himself more or less pinned to a wall and couldn’t help the thrill of amusement from it. He knew Dean knew this was all a matter of how much he allowed Dean to do. He didn’t mind the pressure of being pushed against a wall with his hands immobilized. “I swear I know nothing of what you’re thinking, Dean,” he murmured, tilting his head back as Dean licked and nibbled his way along his jaw.

The assault on his ear lobe made the angel shiver and have to bite back a thready moan. He returned the kiss readily and quickly found himself overwhelmed by Dean’s increasingly demanding mouth. He felt short of breath and completely off balance when Dean finally pulled back to speak again. Not that Dean’s –words- did anything other than make him shiver.

He was halfway ready to strip his clothing off with a burst of grace and see if Dean would let him try some of those things they both wanted out when he sensed something. He had to blink and pull his wildly distracted mind back to attention before he knew what he sensed. Raphael. Raphael was there, not in the room with them but outside Bobby’s house. Castiel had to bite off a gravely swear and catch Dean’s wrists in a vice tight grip. “Dean,” he gritted out as he lamented the unfairness of it all. “We have to stop.”

Where was Azrael? He couldn’t since the other archangel among the host, and Gabriel too was disturbingly absent. “Get dressed, then get Sam and Bobby. You all have to run, Raphael is here.” He bit his lower lip and looked towards where he could sense Raphael. A little burst of grace righted his clothing and returned his vessel to its normal state. “I’ll keep him distracted while you do.” He let go of Dean’s wrists then, and with a rush of air took himself out to face his brother.


	9. Angelic Cat Fights and Curses

Dean had just managed to undo the last button on Castiel's shirt--with a bit too much force, as it turned out, because it went flying off at their feet with a sad little 'plink' sound--and was running one hand down the angel's chest when he felt Cas tense rigidly. Hands came up and wrapped around both of his wrists like bear traps, hard, and he stepped back, blinking furiously to try and get his brain working again.

"Stop? Cas, wha--" he muttered, voice tight and strained, the towel around his waist failing miserably in its quest for decency. He'd figured he'd done something wrong again, though it seemed unlikely because Cas looked utterly debauched and wrecked, but when the angel spoke again something like a lead weight dropped into the pit of his stomach.

Castiel's face went back to his usual serious expression, and his brows borrowed until he was near scowling, though Dean didn't quite miss a hint of petulant frustration somewhere in there. "Fuck, Jesus, Cas, wait--" But Castiel was already gone by the time Dean realized what was going on. He stumbled forward, caught himself against the wall and promptly propelled off of it, stalking to the window to try and see.

Sure enough, someone--a woman, but still a cockblocking bastard, in Dean's opinion--was standing there in the junkyard, looking every bit as annoyingly superior as the last time they'd met. "Goddamn it, I wish he'd stop freakin' running blind into archangels," Dean muttered before tearing the towel off and grabbing the closest clothes he could find. He wrestled himself painfully into his jeans, stuffed his feet into his boots and exited the room at a dead run, slipping his shirt over his head as he thundered downstairs.

Sam was in the kitchen, making a fresh pot of coffee. He turned and fixed Dean with an annoyed look. "You know, it's not hard to pour water over the shower stall when--“

"Not now, Sammy," Dean interrupted. "Raphael's here. You need to get your asses out of here, because Cas is taking him on. Alone. Where the hell's Bobby?"

Sam, bless him, dropped the coffeepot back on the counter and headed over to the table, stuffing the scroll and the stone disc into his laptop bag. "What? Shit. He's in the basement, said he had some of the stuff for the exorcism down there. Wanted to look through it."

Dean swore, a long string of words that did little to lift his panic. All of their angel killing weapons were in the duffel bag. Which he'd left in the trunk of the Impala after getting zapped here and hadn't thought to unpack. Stupid, stupid, stupid. "Go get him. Find something that can, Jesus, I dunno, blast a hole in a pissed-off archangel. Anything," he said as he stalked towards the door.

"Where the hell are you going?"

"Outside. I'm not letting him get blown up a third time."

"Are you insane? We've got nothing here," Sam shot back, pulling his bag over his shoulder. He paused. "The Impala's out back. I'll get Bobby, you get to the car, get the colt, and then be a stupid hero."

Dean gritted his teeth, knowing he'd hear about this again because now Sam was giving him this look. "Fine, you and Bobby run, you hear?" he barked, checked through the window to make sure he could make a run for it without being seen and sprinted out the door, making a beeline for the Impala. He opened the trunk, dug furiously in the duffel bag, took out everything liable to give them a fighting chance--the two angel blades and the colt, a sad, short list of useful things--and stuck a full clay jar of holy oil under his arm before jogging back around the house. If it came to it, he'd just crash the thing on Raphael's face and hope he'd get enough time to light it.

Castiel had never been terribly friendly with Raphael, they simply had never gotten along well. Which, in a family as big as theirs was, was not unexpected. But recently he found himself hating his brother. Now, because Raphael was certainly threatening his friends, he felt anger burning in him for the first time. He’d been wrathful and upset before, but never flat out angry.

“Raphael,” he greeted trying to keep his voice even. “Why are you here?”

Raphael’s vessel’s lips curled up into the stiff parody of a smile. “Because you are here, Castiel. You no doubt are wondering where Azrael is. I wanted to inform you myself that he is dead, as your dirty feces flinging pets will be soon. While our dear brother Gabriel is busy, I’ve decided to deal with all the little annoyances in my life.” The archangel sounded much too smug for Castiel’s comfort. It was true Azrael’s voice was silent in the host. But Azrael’s voice was often missing.

Castiel opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by a rush of air in front of him and the heavy sound of something solid hitting flesh. Raphael went hurtling back from a blow that had been only partially physical. Azrael straightened up and dusted the front of his white suit off. “News of my demise has been greatly exaggerated, I’m afraid,” he said in a forcefully bored voice. His tone belied his fitness though; there was slowly growing red stain on his right side.

“Azrael, you’re wounded,” Castiel said rather than asking the all too human ‘are you alright?’.

“Clearly. Raphael and a few of his little friends decided to ambush me.” Azrael popped his neck as he spoke and stepped forward just as Raphael stood. They stared each other down, going preternaturally still as only something not human could.

It looked like a staring contest to the human eye, but Castiel could see the heavyweight wrestling match that was entirely composed of mental power. The two archangels were attempting to overpower each other with their grace. There were almost no outward signs of this, unless one happened to look up; the clouds were rapidly darkening to fat heavy storm clouds, pregnant with rain and threatening to be torrential, and they were jerking and twisting across the sky like two forces were trying to push and pull them into place. 

Dean could've cheered when Azrael popped in; he was running too high on anger and panic to take much notice of the red-haired angel's vessel. He saw the bloodstain, saw Cas do a double-take at the sight, but most of Dean's mind was now focused on the all important task of getting the shit out of there. Sammy had the disc and the scroll; he could only hope he'd be smart enough to get his ass in the Impala and make a run for it.

He cursed under his breath as the sky darkened, tried desperately to catch Castiel's eye and finally reached for one of the angel blades, ripping off a square at the hem of his shirt and twisting it up tight. The cork on the clay jar of holy oil disappeared somewhere behind him as he spat it out and he stuck the long strip of wound cotton in the jar, wetting it thoroughly before grabbing his lighter from his pocket.

At least those two freaks were still having their little pissing contest, staring at each other in that weird, too-still way all angels seemed to have pegged as an art form. He hefted the makeshift molotov cocktail in his hand, all too aware that he was going to attempt something that definitely didn't turn out too well the last time. He spared a second to dig out his phone and dialled Sammy's number, sending him a quick text message of 'get ur ass to impala ASAP', flicked the lighter open and hesitated.

This was a one shot deal. It could probably only buy them a few minutes at best; if Azrael went down, they were fucked. So Dean sighed, glared at Cas from across the junkyard and did what he hadn't done in weeks, after those few times when the angel hadn't answered. He parted his lips and offered up a whispered, urgent prayer. 

"Cas, I swear to God, you better get your head out of your ass right now and get Sam and Bobby out of here. And me too, would be swell, 'cause I got a present here for the assbutt who's having a staring contest with your candy-sucking friend."

Castiel jerked his head around just as Dean finished his prayer. He could have smacked Dean for his stupidity. Throwing flaming holy oil on an archangel was as close to hitting a beehive with a stick as a human could get. A thought took him to stand in front Dean where he grabbed the holy oil. “Dean. Don’t. They’ll kill you,” he said softly. 

The hair on the back his neck stood up and he jerked Dean closer, shielding the human with his own body. Just in time too; the clouds rumbled ominously and an earth shattering crack followed by a boom chased a blinding flash of light. One or both of the archangels had called lighting down on the other. Maybe a half dozen more strikes happened before Castiel’s protective grip around Dean loosened.

He’d used to grace to shield them both from the light and sound of so many lightning strikes so close. The angel didn’t let go of the jar of holy oil as he twisted around to look at his brothers. Raphael was several steps further away than he had been, his vessel’s neat black suit smoking but looking otherwise unhurt. There were several charred impact points on the ground and the air reeked of ozone. Azrael had his hand outstretched towards Raphael yet hadn’t moved an inch. 

The Archangel smiled again at the sight of Castiel flinging himself in front of his human to protect him. Castiel swore at that look. “Dean you need to run, now. Get in the Impala and go,” he said, turning to look imploringly at Dean. “Raphael’s got me pinned here, I can’t get you out of here.”

The rush of blessed relief when Cas looked up and suddenly zapped himself closer was extremely short-lived. The angel gently wrestled the jar of oil out of Dean's hand, in that slow, purposeful way that was like a human moving with the strength of a bulldozer behind it; he hung onto the thing on principle for all of three seconds before it was gently wrenched out of his white-knuckled grip.

And then the sky went mad overhead, he heard the rumbling of thunder, closer and far louder than it should've been, and he was suddenly pressed up against Castiel's chest. The next few seconds were a blur, like standing in the middle of a hurricane and Dean swore when his ears cleared and Cas released him.

"Fuck," he said with feeling. Over in the yard, Raphael shot them a look so full of scorn it made Dean's palms itch. He turned back to Cas. "Your family sucks. No offense."

Dean knew he should run; Cas was right, he had no idea why he was even here. Sam was headed for the car, or already there. He should've run for Sam, not here, where he was useless. His heart was thrumming wildly at the thought that he'd done exactly what he would've done if Sammy had been in trouble. Only Castiel wasn't Sammy, wasn't family. And now the panic was back full force, because even if Cas wasn't blood, dammit, Dean Winchester didn't leave family behind to get themselves nuked by pissed off archangels.

"Shit, you listen to me, Cas. If I come back here and find bits of exploded you all over the place agai--Just... God, be careful and get your feathery ass out of here as soon as you can," he finally gritted out, one hand still fisted in that stupid tax accountant shirt. It took everything he had to let go of it and then he was running, around the corner of the porch again, his mind running with him in ridiculous little circles. 'Oh, congratulations, Dean. Nice idea, the sex with the angel. Look where you're at, now. This won't complicate your life, not at all.'

By the time he reached the Impala--thank God for small mercies, both Sam and Bobby were waiting fitfully--he was shaking, pissed off and afraid, but mostly confused. "Get in the car!" he barked at Sammy, waiting until he'd heard the twin slam of doors before wrestling the keys in the ignition. Sam quirked an eyebrow, because his hand was so unsteady it took Dean two freaking tries to stick the damn key in.

"... Is Cas okay?"

Dean pulled out of the salvage yard in reverse and yanked on the handbrake, swinging the car around and into the street. "I dunno, Sammy. He's stuck in there, told me to run."

"And you just left him in there?" Sam asked, incredulous.

"It's an archangel thunderstorm wrestling match, Sam, the hell d'you want me to do?" The car swerved, Dean taking the turn way too fast, his eyes flicking up to watch as Bobby's house, squatting low underneath a massive Spielberg-worthy sky, disappeared from the rear view mirror as he drove away. "Freakin' angels," he said again, just because it was worth repeating right now.

Castiel kept his grip on the jar of holy oil as Dean moved away. He wouldn’t make Dean and promises about being careful or abandoning his brothers to their battle. He would do his best but he couldn’t make any promises.

He would have liked to flee with them but leaving Azrael to fight alone was not possible. If nothing else he would have an opening to attack Raphael himself. He moved away from where the archangels stood to give them more room to fight.

It was about an hour later that he could finally call them back. It’d been awhile since he had to use a cell phone but he couldn’t find them anywhere so he had to call. “Dean, it’s safe for you to return to Bobby’s, the fight’s over,” he said as soon as Dean answered his phone.

Bobby’s junk yard was chaotic; several junked cars had been strewn about like children’s toys from the fight. The house still stood without any damage and the sky was still full of angry, pregnant clouds that seemed to be dispersing naturally.

Azrael was sitting on the ground and leaning against a car tire, one hand clamped over his wound, the other covered in blood up to his mid-forearm. His big, iridescent black wings were out and spread in a half mantling, half threat display where he sat. Castiel couldn’t believe what the archangel had done. He’d known of course that Azrael’s vessel was a witch and still could use witchcraft. He’d never expected the archangel to use it and force all of their wings to manifest. Nor for Azrael to go out of his way to mutilate Raphael’s wings. That thought made Castiel clench his wings tightly to his back nervously.

Dean had stopped at a nearby gas station, too hyped up to keep driving and too uncertain what would happen to actually make plans beyond 'freaking the fuck out'. Sam was right in there with him, because if that bastard Raphael somehow managed to come out of this one, they were all pretty much screwed; Dean had no idea how the war upstairs was going, but he was certain that having the bad guy eliminate all his competition couldn't be good.

Plus, he was deathly nervous about Cas, and Sammy picked up on it even when he wasn't sure himself why.

"Dean, Jesus, would you stop pacing?"

"I'm not pacing."

Sam eyed him like he'd grown a second head. "Are we talking about this, or...?"

Dean frowned. "Or," he growled, glancing up at the sky and the rumbling clouds for the seventh time.

"Fine," Sam sighed. "But just so you know, I know something's--"

Happily, Dean's phone interrupted him, and he couldn't remember ever being happier to hear the blaring, tinny sound of his phone's miniature speaker before.

"Cas?" he answered, because the ringtone had been AC/DC's Thunderstruck, which he'd secretly assigned to the angel's number after that bit of glorious madness with the exploding TV and popping lights. Sam's eyebrows shot up and he leaned against the car, his face a mask of honest worry.

"On our way," Dean added as he hung up. "Jesus, he's okay. Back in the car, he says it's safe to go back."

Sam nodded and they all shuffled back inside the Impala. The drive back took a little under fifteen minutes, because Dean was speeding and they hadn't gotten far in the first place. Sam whistled as they pulled up the driveway, surveying the damage and the upturned cars. It looked like a small tornado had roared through Bobby's yard. And smack dab in the middle of the destruction, the two angels stood awkwardly, Azrael a huge black shadow and Castiel a tense, compact shape.

Dean saw his brother twitch in surprise. "Cas has wings," he exclaimed, somewhat stupidly.

"Of course Cas has wings."

"Well, I'd never seen them."

Dean firmly shut his mouth and got out of the car, walking uncertainly towards the angels. Azrael was wounded but Cas--thank God, he thought, and damn him for getting all antsy and nervous--seemed unharmed.

"Uh," he started intelligently. "Raphael's gone, I guess? And what's with the, you know?" He gestured helplessly at Castiel's shoulders before stuffing his hands firmly into his pockets. If he didn't, he was liable to do something stupid, like reach out like a lovestruck school girl.

“They’re like parrots repeating the obvious,” Azrael muttered from where he sat. The archangel sounded rough, just like he’d gone through ten rounds of boxing and barely made it out on his own. His wings twitched as he spoke, giving the impression of a great nervous bird ready to fly away.

Castiel glared down at Azrael who fixed him with an unfazed look. “Our wings were forced to manifest while Azrael and Raphael fought,” Castiel said, frowning. “So far I’ve been unable to correct that.” He shifted and glanced against his will to where Raphael had been before he left. The only signs the other archangel had stood there were several blood splatters and a large, bloody, green feather. 

“The spell will last twenty-four hours,” Azrael muttered, twitching his fingers in the direction of the green feather and setting it on fire with a thought.

“Spell? Since when do angels use spells?” Bobby asked while looking around the salvage yard.

“Since my vessel is a witch. Do I need to explain it in detail? Or spell it out for you, ape?” Azrael growled, though he didn’t seem to have put much heart in either the threat or the insult.

“Yeah and I’m guessin’ using that spell hurt more than that cut didn’t it?” Bobby said gruffly.

“Can I kill him?”

“No, you cannot kill him, Azrael,” Castiel said with a sigh.

Dean watched the feather burn, eyes flickering between the two angels. Azrael didn't seem to be ready to get up and flitter away anytime soon; not for the first time he wondered what the hell was going on up there, how Castiel's war was going along. This whole thing with an angel having a witch as a vessel was more than a little disturbing, and he knew Sammy probably thought the same thing.

Azrael already gave him the creeps. This whole witch thing didn't help much, especially since he'd apparently put the whammy on Cas as well. Sam, for his part, seemed a bit transfixed by the wings that rested against Castiel's back and shoulders. Dean couldn't quite suppress a slight shiver; he wasn't sure he understood most of what the wings were--Cas had said something about physical manifestations and such--but he was pretty certain it wasn't good for him to go around shedding feathers all over for twenty-four hours, if the feathers could be used in a binding ritual.

"What about Raphael? We rid of him for good?" he asked, eyeing the clearing sky doubtfully. He would've thanked Azrael, too, if the smug bastard wasn't just so... well, smug and annoying.

At his side, Sam rolled his shoulder and patted his laptop bag. "I'm gonna go back inside, make sure everything's still where it should be and that our wards are still good. I'm glad you're okay, Cas." He shared a look with Dean, a long one, and Dean knew they'd have to have a talk; this whole thing was the worst example of getting caught unawares and that wasn't the sort of thing they could afford.

Dean nodded at his brother and watched him go, a bit loathe to let Castiel out of his sight for the moment. He stared at Azrael's bloodied hand and frowned. "You went after his wings," he stated, realization dawning on his face. Which made the whole twenty-four hour deadline even worse. He had no idea how angels worked, but considering the fact that Castiel could heal pretty much anything yet still bore that nasty, thick scar on his wing, he was pretty sure this wasn't a good thing.

“He ambushed me and stabbed me in the back; of course I went for his wings,” Azrael explained with a sigh. “If my dear brother wants to fight dirty, I will fight dirty right back.” 

“Raphael fled. I doubt that he’ll be back any time soon. He was… pretty seriously injured,” Castiel added, his wings clenching against his back. “We can’t heal our wings like we can our vessels; the injuries were mostly to them.”

Bobby snorted and stomped into the house after Sam. Azrael watched him go then hauled himself to his feet with a grunt. Castiel shoot him a look and the archangel’s wings twitched in what was clearly a shrug. Slowly, he stretched one then the other out, fanning each wing out their full extent before closing them and vanishing with a rush of air.

Castiel shook his head and looked at Dean. “I should go. Raphael only came here because I was here,” he muttered. “It’ll be safer for you if I keep my distance.”

Dean winced as Azrael stretched his wings, shying away slightly from the massive span of dark feathers. Thankfully, the archangel just poofed out of sight and Dean quickly relaxed. He hadn’t been aware how high-strung he’d been until he breathed out, and when Cas turned towards him and suggested he leave something in him just snapped.

He frowned, reached a hand out and grabbed onto one of the lapels of the angel’s trench coat; it was rumpled and sat strangely on his shoulders now, though in a way that suggested that the wings had little to do with normal flesh and bone. “No,” he hissed, pulling himself closer. “No, Cas, you don’t get to decide when and where me and Sammy fight. You don’t get to jump in front of angelic freight trains anymore and nobody wants to pick bits of your teeth out of their hair again!”

And probably only half of that made sense to the angel, but Dean only realized he had gotten loud when he found himself pretty much right in Castiel’s face. He blinked, a bit surprised at the strength of his outburst but not quite capable of stepping back. He released the angel’s coat though and took a deep breath. “Anyway… I thought we were going after those rocks. Out on the road, what are the chances Raphael will pick up your trail?”

And, dammit, he couldn’t ask; Cas himself hadn’t hesitated to beat the shit out of him for his damned martyr complex but Dean couldn’t even ask him to cut the crap and take the help when it was offered.

He finally stepped back a foot or two when he caught sight of Sam staring incredulously at him from the porch. “Uh, I think… Bobby was going to say this morning… We’ve got our map and we think one of the stones is… close… Yeah, I’m gonna be inside,” Sam muttered, pointing his thumb at the door behind him before turning on his heel.

Dean raked a hand down his face. “God, okay, this is just… Look, Cas, the smug bastard isn’t coming back today, right? Let’s just figure out where the damn stone is and see how it goes,” he offered, stuffing his hands back into his jeans pockets.

Castiel blinked when Dean grabbed a hold of his trench coat and started shouting at him. He shivered from the force of Dean’s emotions and stared at him for long moment before Dean let go of him and stepped back thanks to Sam. “Alright,” he said softly. “I just want to protect you, Dean,” he murmured, looking down at his feet.

He looked up at Dean for a long moment. “If one of the stones is close, perhaps going after it would be advantageous,” he said after some thought. “You and Sam should go after it though. I can’t. The risk of being seen with,” he flexed his wings slightly. “These is...great.”

Not to mention he felt vulnerable and exposed with them manifested. It would be tempting fate for him to go after a keystone with Dean. He didn’t want to send them off alone but it was safer if he didn’t go. For them all.

“Yeah, I… know, Cas. But unless you tell me you’ve got a magical archangel-proof safe room somewhere up there, I’d really just rather you stayed down here, man.” And that was that out of the way, at least, Dean thought. It wasn’t much but it made him feel a bit less like he was going to explode, and after the way Castiel’s head dropped to stare at his feet, he had to say something to explain his outburst. 

“You’ll be back to your old chuckly self in no time, you’ll see,” he added, eyeing the angel’s wings a bit uncertainly. This was mad, all of it; he should never have let himself get drunk with Cas, should’ve realized this all would explode in his face. Because it was one thing to admit you could want somebody and enjoy an occasional fun tumble between the sheets. But when that somebody went and fought all sorts of creepy creatures and you spent most of your time trying to cheat death—though admittedly they were getting good at that—it was all bound to go to shit pretty quickly.

And he knew he was already more than a little screwed, knew he’d managed to set himself up to be crushed and broken again, as he’d been when he realized he’d have to leave Lisa, probably even worse. Lisa had been good for him, but he’d known from the start he shouldn’t have been there in the first place. This… whatever it was with Cas was even worse, because he knew, in his gut, that what he was doing was wrong, that Cas was at once infinitely stronger than he was and so easy to crush, to break, yet he couldn’t stay away. He’d seen it happen, he’d seen that face twisted and wrong and still, too trusting. He’d seen the life bled out of those blue eyes, replaced with too-loose abandon and open despair, hazy with drugs.

“We don’t have to leave right away, so… let’s just go back inside, feathers,” he finally said, plastering a tired grin on his face and tugging once, as he’d done in that hotel diner, on Castiel’s tie, before turning and making his way up the porch steps and back into Bobby’s house.

“It’s not nearly as comfortable as Bobby’s panic room, but I do have somewhere safe I can hide if need be,” Castiel said, shaking his head slightly at Dean. He wasn’t blind to Dean’s emotions, something was bothering him. He could tell that much, and knew it involved him somehow. Probably something to do with what they’d been doing.

The fact that Dean had reservations about it as well was almost a relief. It was also worrying, because he didn’t want to ruin things. But he didn’t know what it was Dean was clinging to that worried him so much. He wanted to break his promise and dig around in Dean’s head for the answer but he didn’t. 

He couldn’t help but smile as Dean tugged on his tie and headed into Bobby’s house. He still wasn’t comfortable with his wings out but there was nothing he could do about it at this point.

Sammy got up the second Dean entered, pushing the stone disc along the table and angling his laptop towards him. He stopped though, staring a bit wide-eyed as Castiel followed. Dean snorted and sat himself at the table; Sam had that weird, awed look on his face again, the same one he’d sported when he’d first met Cas and had acted all fanboy over meeting an angel of the Lord.

“Dude, staring much? It’s still Cas,” Dean muttered, rolling his eyes and reaching for the laptop. And damn, but that was a weird sort of half-lie, because it was already damned hard for him to keep his eyes away from the freaking wings. Every time he turned and caught sight of them he was reminded of running his fingers through the feathers, feeling the weird, buzzing strength of them and, yeah, the very awesome few moments that followed.

He was pretty sure there was a sort of pride to be had re: his sexual prowess, what with the fact that he’d managed to make an angel short-circuit a whole motel. He grinned, and the easy rightness of the memories eased some of his somber mood. 

“I know, it’s still… It’s just weird, Dean,” Sammy said, directing an uneasy smile at Castiel. “We’re sorta used to seeing you look like just a tax accoun—Oh.” A pause, and Dean frowned and looked up from the laptop. “You’ve seen them before,” Sam stated.

Dean’s eyes flickered back towards Cas and he swallowed before shrugging at his brother. “Yeah, I told you before, I got the whole show in Illinois, remember? You’re going senile early, Sasquatch.”

He could almost feel Sam thinking viciously at him ‘But you said they were shadows’, and so Dean only smiled sweetly and let his brother imagine whatever the hell he wanted.

“Ooookay, moving on. You said you knew where the first stone was?” Dean said, getting up to peek into Bobby’s fridge; after all the excitement, the waffles were starting to feel like a long lost memory.

Sam shot him a disturbed look and turned instead to Castiel. “Yeah, we got… It’s actually a small town just a few miles west of Grand Forks, in North Dakota. There’s uh… a place called Devil’s Lake and a pretty big national preserve right next to it. Map points pretty much in the middle of it. Fort Totten.”

Dean sighed, closed the fridge door and returned. “Great. Nearly up in Kanuck land. I hate the cold. How far?” he asked, peering at the map.

“Six, seven hours, tops?”

“Cas, you… sure you want to sit this one out? We got no idea what we’re gonna encounter up there,” Dean finally said, turning to stare uncertainly at the angel.

Castiel flexed his wings self-consciously as Sam not so subtly stared at his wings. But he didn’t say anything, letting on how nervous he was because of this would not be wise. “It’s possible the keystone has found its way into someone’s possession at this point. Or is being displayed as an artifact from the past somewhere,” he said, tilting his head to the side and thinking.

He looked up at Dean and frowned. “I would rather not risk exposure because of my wings…” he said uncertainly.

Bobby snorted. “That area there is prime Wendigo territory. If this thing is out in the woods I would suggest you buck up and go with them, ya idjit. It’s remote enough that you probably won’t see but a handful of other people so I think the three of you show go. Not to mention I wouldn’t mind not having my house full for a change,” the older hunter said as he poured himself a glass of good ole hunter’s helper.

“Oh, wendigos. Remember wendigos, Sammy? Those were fun. Simple. Man, I miss wendigos,” Dean said wistfully while Sam rolled his eyes and packed up the map and his laptop again.

“I wouldn’t go as far as saying I miss wendigos, but yeah, I remember.” There was a hint of fondness in Sam’s voice, too, which made Dean chuckle and shake his head. The duffel bag was still in the car and if they did encounter anything like a wendigo, Dean knew they’d have enough firepower to take it on. He still wanted Cas along, though, because leaving him here wasn’t any safer and Bobby was right; the place up there would probably be deserted.

“Backseat’s free if you change your mind, Cas. Let’s just… get this show started and see what the hell is so special about these fancy stones,” he said as he walked towards the door, pausing to shoot Castiel a wry grin. “Sammy’ll even play I Spy with you if you like. It’s riveting.”

Sam snorted as he tugged his bag over his shoulder again. “I haven’t played I Spy since I was twelve, Dean.”

“Don’t lie, dude, you played it just last month.”

“That’s because we were in Tennessee and all I could see was cows.”

A pause, as Dean digested this. “There was a crow, too. That one wasn’t fair.”

Sam chuckled as he passed him and wandered outside. “Cheater!” Dean called after him before following. “This shouldn’t take long, Bobby. We’ll stay in touch.” And then he was outside, after a lingering look at Castiel.

His brother was already in the car and Dean could’ve predicted the question before his ass even touched the seat. “The hell is up with you, Dean?”

Dean started the car and waited a few moments, unsure if Cas would follow them or not. He glanced at Sam. “Nothing’s wrong with me. We just avoided getting fried by a pissed-off archangel, Sammy, but I’m fine, thanks.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it. You’ve been acting weird all week and this thing with Cas is—“

“Yeah? What thing?” Dean interrupted, jamming a Metallica tape hard into the Impala’s radio and twisting the volume knob nearly as high as it could go. 

“Jeez, fine, you’re like a child sometimes, I swear,” Sam gritted out over the music, eyebrows drawing together in a massive, expressive scowl.

“Well, you’re a big, frilly girl, so I guess we’re even.”

Castiel tilted his head and watched Sam and Dean outside. He wasn’t really sure if he wanted to stay or go. Bobby solved that for him. “If you don’t leave I’m going to start throwing books at you until you do, ya idjit,” the older hunter said, scowling at the angel.

“Right, I’ll just go then,” Castiel said and with a rush of air took himself to the back seat of the Impala. “I’ve been informed that either I go with you or I suffer being pelted with Bobby’s vast collection of books until I flee,” he stated over the music.

He had to shift around and adjust his wings until he could get comfortable. He had to unfurl them partially and spread them out over the backseat and sit in the middle of the seat so they weren’t visible from the outside and he wasn’t sitting on them either.

Sammy jumped and twisted in his seat as soon as Cas spoke, a small smile forming on his lips. “Yeah, he gets antsy when we stay too long, don’t take it personally,” he said.

Dean, for his part, snorted and lowered the volume a few notches. Sam shot him a look which clearly meant ‘Oh, sure, now you don’t want Enter Sandman blasting through the speakers’. Dean ignored him and looked up at the angel in the rear view mirror. “So, Devil’s Lake is—…“ he started, then promptly forgot what he meant to say, turned slowly and stared at Cas.

Stared at the way those really rather massive wings curled and fitted themselves against the Impala’s backseat, at Castiel’s restless shifting to get comfortable and, eventually, at his eyes, when he managed to catch them. His brain promptly ran off into imagination land without his consent and adjusted the picture, getting rid of pretty much every stitch of clothing on the angel except for the tie.

And that was uncool, really, because Sammy was sitting right there and Dean couldn’t breathe. “Uh,” he groaned inarticulately before a firm punch against his shoulder brought him crashing back to reality. 

“Jesus,” Sam muttered.

Dean cleared his throat, shot Sammy a murderous look and put the car into gear, driving out of the yard. “Fuck, okay, okay. Now who’s in a weird mood?”

“Still you.”

Dean cranked up the volume on the radio again, frowning.

Castiel tilted his head at Dean and blinked slowly. He was unused to being stared at like Dean was staring at him really. It made him... uncomfortable but not in a bad way. He flexed his wings again to make sure they were comfortable and met Dean’s eyes in the rear view mirror. 

He looked out the window and watched the landscape go by. Earth awed him even still; it was the most perfect creation his father had ever made, next to man. He listened to Sam and Dean bicker about the radio and Dean’s weird mood absently and listened the hum of the Host. It was quieter than normal, almost hushed. 

Clearly the news of Azrael and Raphael’s fight had traveled fast. The memory of how Raphael’s wings had been twisted and broken at Azrael’s hands made him shiver uncomfortably. He kept his thoughts off that subject, choosing to instead watch Dean out of the corner of his eye.

Around noon they ended up stopping so Dean and Sam could get something to eat. Castiel expected to wait in the car outside of a restaurant while Dean and Sam when inside to eat. He was gratified when Sam went in to get them food to go.

After about the seventh time Dean froze when he glanced up in the rearview mirror, Sam started snorting under his breath and Dean started answering his brother with glares, which did absolutely nothing to curb his apparent hilarity. This one trip would go on Dean’s list of ‘things to get back at Sammy for’, because it would have been endlessly less awkward if Sam hadn’t been such a perceptive little bitch. 

By the time they stopped and Sam rolled his eyes and unfolded his long body out of the car to get them some much deserved food, Dean was restless in his seat. He waited exactly three seconds after Sammy had disappeared into the restaurant then killed the engine, debated getting the hell out of there before he did something stupid and gave up. He twisted in his seat, curled himself up and over the armrests and climbed over onto the backseat gingerly, one knee resting on the leather and both hands fisted in Castiel’s rumpled suit.

He was there before he’d had a chance to think up of a way to explain himself, so he simply shrugged, said, “Freaking hell, Cas,” and pressed against him, mouth going immediately to the angel’s neck. Once he was close, though, all chance of actually remaining coherent was gone; he’d fucking panicked over the fight in Bobby’s yard, it’d been days since he’d touched skin and, dammit, the angel had no right to look so… well, right, sitting like this in an awkward slouch with miles of dark, stained feathers around him.

Dean knew there was no way in hell they could do anything before Sammy returned, but he could sure kiss the angel senseless. He dragged his mouth away with some difficulty from Cas’ throat and captured his lips, not wasting a single second before plying them open and making it quick and messy, little more than rough, near desperate swipes of tongue and sucking lips.

His hands migrated upwards, past that damned, distracting tie—Jesus, now he was getting pissed at a tie—and fluttered over the arching softness of Castiel’s wings as he bit back a groan into the kiss.

Castiel blinked as Dean half climbed into the back seat with him. "Dean, wha--" He didn’t really need to finish that thought because Dean’s mouth was working against his throat and nothing mattered. He reached up to fist his hand in Dean’s shirt and made a low sound that might have been a groan. 

He leaned up into the kiss when Dean moved from his neck to a full on kiss. He had no idea what had prompted this but he wasn’t about to complain. The hands threading their way through his wings forced a breathy groan out of him. He brought a hand up to curl it around the back of Dean’s head and dragged his teeth over Dean’s lower lip.

“Dean,” he said, breaking the kiss to press his forehead against Dean’s. “You are like temptation itself,” he managed to growl out. He licked his lips and couldn’t help flexing his wings under Dean’s hands. He wondered if Dean knew just what those little explorative touches to his wings did to him?

There wasn't much time to get his breath back, because as soon as Cas leaned away to break the kiss Dean's eyes zeroed in on a flash of pink tongue leaving a wet trail over already moist lips and Castiel's wings were twitching under his fingers. It was probably a testament as to how far this had gone that he couldn't freaking keep his hands away from a pair of wings--really, there was something a bit worrying about that sort of thing, if Dean was being honest with himself--but he could easily blame it on Cas himself.

On the way the angel seemed to freeze up whenever they were mentioned, on the uncertain way he'd been shifting all morning in the backseat, on the uncomfortable set of his shoulders whenever someone stared at the stained feathers too long. And Dean was nearly stretched over Castiel's lap, slowly burying his hands in the strange, not quite normal softness of them.

He grinned, something wide and pretty damned proud of himself, because Castiel's voice had just dropped into gut-wrenching gravel territory and, yeah, that was all on Dean. "Am I? Gotta say, I think you have that the wrong way 'round, Cas." As he spoke he followed the line of--God, it felt like steel under velvet--Castiel's wings, the hard, curved edge of them until he reached more familiar shoulders. "Sitting all prim and, just... The suit isn't fair with the wings, man. Not," he muttered, and suddenly one hand was tugging Castiel's shirt from his pants and there was tingling heat under his palm again, "fair at all... Not in the backseat of my damn car, anyway."

He had to check himself, because if he wasn't careful Sammy would return to find him with his face buried in Cas' lap and, God, that was just too scary a thought to consider. So he shivered, gritted his teeth and leaned closer again, reaching lower between them to fist a hand firmly in the hem of Castiel's smart black pants and around his belt and tug, hard, to make his point. 

"Jesus, Cas, you have no idea how badly I want to wreck you right now," he drawled, unable to stop himself from babbling. "You exploded just at the touch of my hand, fuck, I want to take you apart. I want to tug you closer and pin you to something and just suck you down until you scream and I don't care if you fucking short circuit an entire city." And then he pressed against Cas and kissed him again, hard and fast, because if he didn't he was liable to do just that and, Jesus, full daylight in the backseat of the Impala wasn't the time and place for this.

Dean’s words made Castiel shiver and groan into the kiss. He dragged his teeth along Dean’s lower lip and couldn’t quite keep his voice from getting low and growly. “And you are worse, running your hands through my wings like they are something awe worthy.” He didn't add what he thought about his own wings. 

He had always been vain of his wings, before he pulled Dean out of hell. Because they had been cream and gold and orderly, not singed and rumpled like they were now. Dean’s attention to them was flattering. He jerked his thoughts back to the matter at hand which was his lapful of Dean. “I have very little idea what everything you just said entails,” he muttered, flexing his fingers against Dean’s neck lightly. “And I very much want to find out the details.”

“But at this moment I would suggest more space between us so that Sam isn’t, as you would put it, ‘scarred for life’.” He let go of Dean as he spoke and gently pushed at his chest to urge him to move back into the driver seat. “We can do any number of those things you want so badly to do later,” he found himself promising as he leaned closer to kiss Dean briefly on the lips before pushing him away again. He ached for more of Dean’s insistent wandering hands and demanding kisses. But he didn’t want to cause any unnecessary discomfort to Sam either.

Castiel's teeth grazing at his lower lip forced a sharp, startled groan from Dean, and he leaned back hurriedly, quirking an eyebrow at the angel; the sneaky son of a bitch sure did learn fast, though Dean shouldn't have been surprised. He'd never really had to repeat an explanation, with Cas, and the only things it seemed the angel had never got was the issue of personal space and the weird, intense staring.

Neither of which actually bothered Dean. Especially now, with the angel so close and clearly affected by this, lean body tensing visibly against Dean every time he twitched or rubbed or teased those massive black feathers. Dean would have grinned and dived right back in--his other knee was in fact sneaking upwards onto the back seat as well, which would effectively have landed him straight in Castiel's lap, a fact which would have probably bothered him if he hadn't been running on want and hormones for the past week--but a firm hand against his chest stopped him short.

Dean frowned, tested the strength behind it and found only steel. "God dammit, Cas, do you have any idea how long it's been since I've..." he started, then firmly closed his mouth. Since he'd what? Taken a random chick up to his room? No, he could have that at anytime. This wasn't blind want to shoot his load, this was that weird, gut-wrenching feeling of anticipation which Dean usually only felt for a couple minutes when he and his questionable "date" shuffled towards the bed.

This was "could have" and somehow choosing not to. This was torture. He sighed, raked a--oh hell no, not shaking--hand through his hair and nodded. "Can't believe I'm letting you take the lead on this," he muttered, though there was no malice in his tone and his lips were quirking upwards. And of course he knew full well he couldn't actually have forced the angel to do anything. 

He shuffled back awkwardly and managed not to shove his foot on the dashboard only by pure luck; the near disaster made him swear colourfully, but he supposed Cas had either gotten used to it by now or didn't overmuch care anymore. But after a bit of twisting around he was back in his seat, just in time for Sam to waltz out of the diner, arms loaded with paper bags. Food, at least, would be a pleasant distraction. 

Dean shifted uncomfortably in his seat and sighed, grunting out a question before Sam's butt had even touched the seat. "What d'you get? Was there pie?"

"Yeah, Dean, I got pie. And burgers all around," Sam answered, his tone surprisingly patient. "Got you one too, Cas, I wasn't sure if... Well, you know. It's not White Castle at least."

Castiel found himself smiling slightly. “I assure you I’m content to let you lead any other time,” he said as Dean folded himself in the driver seat again. He reached up and smoothed down his shirt with his hands and ruffled his feathers on his wings to return them to their normal state, or something close to it.

He blinked and watched with a hint of amusement as Dean demanded to know if Sam had gotten pie. He was surprised when Sam mentioned getting him a burger as well. He found himself smiling slightly at the younger Winchester. “That’s very kind of you, Sam,” he said honestly. “I wouldn’t mind eating with you.” 

It was almost worrying how many human habits he was picking up. First drinking with Dean, then this series of heated kisses and needy touches, and now eating. It was deceptively easy to get lulled into doing this all the time. Traveling with Sam and Dean and not having to worry about his brothers and their planning.

Dean commented wryly on Castiel's good mood as he pulled out of the diner's parking lot, attributing it to the benefits of a good old road trip and the general awesomeness of the Impala. Sammy just rolled his eyes and distributed out the food and they ate in easy silence, the car eating up the miles easily until they'd nearly reached their destination.

The nature reserve itself was closed for visitors when they arrived, so Dean drove a few miles past its official entrance until they found a secluded enough spot where they could hide the car by the side of the road. A few feet beyond it a tall, wire fence blocked the way and Dean decided that, since they were roughing it, they might as well go all the way. He extricated a pair of wire cutters from the trunk of the Impala and made short work of the fence, cutting out a large enough section of it that even Cas would be able to shuffle through without risking any damage to his wings.

Once on the other side he paused, shouldered the duffel bag containing nearly every kind of weapon they owned and raised an expectant eyebrow at Sammy. "Where to now, oh, Oracle of Google Maps?"

"Yes, Dean, because I'm the only person here who even knows how to work Google Maps."

Dean shrugged. "I do know how to work it, I just prefer to let you do all the nerd work since you like it so much, Samantha."

Sammy huffed out a breath through his nose, waving his cell phone vaguely in a north-eastern direction. "About a mile or so that way. I have no idea what could possibly be out there, but there you go."

About a mile or so 'out there' turned out in fact to be a sort of shack, which Dean correctly guessed was a visitor centre of some kind, just ten or fifteen minutes walk from the entrance they'd first passed. It was closed and locked tight, the tourist season up here well past over. He fingered the large padlock at the door thoughtfully.

"So, we go in the old fashioned way or what?"

"What's the newfangled way?" Sam asked.

They both turned around to stare at Castiel. Dean shook his head. "Okay, no. I'm not getting zapped again for an inch and a half of wooden door," he said as he stepped back, reached into the duffel bag and came up swinging a long length of lead pipe. The padlock gave with a sad little 'ping' sound. Dean grinned, wrestled the door open and stepped inside.

“I could have unlocked that.” Castiel pointed out with a wry look of amusement as he followed Dean and Sam inside. He kept his wings clenched tightly to his back it did nothing to hide them but it made his silhouette simply look bulkier. “It’s… here,” he said, looking around the tiny three room visitor center.

He could sense something tugging at his grace in a most disturbing manner. It was like something was trying to drain him from a distance. It made him shiver and hesitate at the door. He did not like this feeling; it was like how he’d felt in the brief moments when Pestilence had made him ill. 

His jaw clenched and he really didn’t want to go further into the shack. He’d felt this nagging drain from a distance, now it was worse. He would probably get used to it in time, just as he’d gotten used to having a little part of his mind tuned to Dean, or the part that was tuned to tracking Azrael.

"Okay, good, we'll just split up and..." Dean started, turning to look over in turn at Sam and Castiel. His brows furrowed when he caught sight of the angel, standing tensely in the middle of the room, wings drawn tight against his back, his features set in a seriously disturbed frown. Sammy's eyes followed Dean and his face mirrored Castiel's for a moment. He nodded.

"Yeah, okay, you and me split up..."

"Cas can stay right here," Dean finished. He managed a faint grin at Castiel. "Dude, it's just like playing Marco Polo. You don't need to dig around, but if you feel something you gotta tell us if we get close." He turned towards Sam. "D'you feel something?"

"Nope." And Sam's face, for a moment, was furiously smug, as though he was happy he couldn't feel whatever was putting such a serious strain on the angel. Dean figured he probably was.

"Right. Whoever finds it first--"

"Gets the other one to do his laundry for a week, I know," Sam interrupted.

"I could've called something else. Bitch."

"You never do, you jerk."

And then the hunt was on, and if the easy banter had been a bit forced and played out mostly for Castiel's benefit neither brother mentioned it. They opened all the doors inside the small cabin and searched through every exhibit and drawer. Dean even ruffled through employee lockers somewhere in a small side closet.

Unfortunately it was Sammy's voice that rang out in a triumphant 'Ah-ha!' and Dean followed the sound a bit grumpily. "Found something?" he asked, just as Sam stepped away from an opened drawer. Inside it, arranged in neat little rows with small bits of paper under each one, were about three dozen small stones, all stacked up according to rarity, size and date of finding.

None of them caught Dean's eye, though a few glittered particularly prettily, if you were into that sort of thing. Which Dean figured people who went around touring nature centres and looking at exhibits probably were.

"Uh, Cas? We got us a stone collection over here," he called out.

Castiel frowned and watched the brothers look around the center, trying very hard not to get panicky. He moved closer to Sam and looked into the drawer of stone samples. Within touching distance of the stone the subtle pull at his grace was magnified to a full on drain. He shuddered and finally pointed at a hunk of raw emerald the size of his fist. “That’s it,” he said before backing away a few steps.

The stone itself was unimpressive other than its size. The paper labelling it read clearly ‘Emerald’ and a date of discovery that was probably around the time the little shack was built with annotation of ‘unnatural?’ under it. It was an almost perfectly shaped pyramid without any signs of tool marks on it, and it was warm to the touch like the stone disk was. 

Castiel moved closer to the door and further away from the stone drawer without even realizing he was. He would have just transported himself elsewhere if it wasn’t for the fact that Dean and Sam could be in danger if he left.

Both Sam and Dean stared with varying expressions of concern as Castiel stepped closer to the stone; Sam's face was clearly on the curious side of concerned, while Dean couldn't quite keep the frown off his face. He stared at Cas probably a moment longer than necessary and waited until the angel had stepped away before turning back to the wooden drawer.

Sammy shot him an inquisitive look. Dean shrugged. "Okay, then. Here goes nothing," he said before reaching down and wrapping his fingers around the green stone Castiel had pointed out.

It was strangely anti-climactic. Nothing much happened aside from Dean lifting a weirdly glittery stone off the wood. For a moment he was grinning, palming the stone victoriously as he shot Sammy an 'I told you so' look and Castiel a bright grin. And then the stone seemed to grow hotter, way hotter than any cool crystal had any right to. But it lasted only a second, and by the time Dean registered the sensation it was already gone.

Sam fixed him with a worried scowl. "Everything okay?"

Dean shook his head. "Yeah, it just... Felt weird. Mojo-y, I guess. You said these were from the ritual?" he asked, tilting his head towards Castiel as he pocketed the stone and bent to pick up his duffel bag.

Castiel nodded. “That is the crystallized grace of an archangel tied into the cage holding Lucifer,” he said, watching Dean closely. “They are supposed to be completely harmless to humans,” he added. He would keep his distance from Dean as long as he had the stone on him. 

“I dislike being in the presence of it,” he said at length. “It… pulls at my grace in a very disturbing manner.” He didn’t like to admit that he was as uncomfortable as he was. But he was very much set on edge by the stone. He didn’t like that Dean was holding it. He didn’t like that it was being brought into the light for what it was. 

“We should go,” he said finally before heading out of the shack and starting back towards where Dean had parked the Impala.

"Jesus," Sam breathed, watching Castiel turn on his heel and leave. "Did that sound ominous to you?"

"Yeah, it sorta did. Too freakin' late to do anything about it, though," Dean answered as he shouldered the duffel bag and followed Castiel outside the cabin. It was already getting dark, but he could easily follow along the angel's path; Castiel's tan trench coat stood out against the quickly worsening blackness of the forest. 

"Stone not being weird?" Sam asked as they walked, a few feet behind Cas.

"Nope. It's just a stone, Sammy. Quit freaking out."

"Okay, okay, fine. Jeez."

And that was the extent of their conversation until they reached the obvious breach in the fence where they'd parked the Impala. The weight of the stone in his jeans pocket had seemed to grow exponentially as they neared the car, though, and Dean was hiding a slight hitch in his breath when he finally got to the trunk and opened it. He dumped the bag into it, reached into his pocket and produced the stone. 

In the dim light it seemed to shine, and he ignored Sammy and Cas getting into the car in favor of staring at it for a few seconds. The stone shimmered, briefly, and the car seemed to disappear in front of Dean as he stood there, one hand extended upwards to hold up a trunk that was no longer there. In front of him he saw, clear as day, a tall, gangly figure stalking up to another shorter one.

There was nothing about the weird strangers he could name as distinctly human; both of them seemed blurry, his surroundings even more so. But the intent was clear, if nothing else. When the tall figure reached the other one and grabbed onto it, Dean could feel it as though he was there, like a surge of want in his gut that propelled him forward. It left him dazed and breathless for a second, and when he looked up again he was nearly blinded, the figures blazing brightly before being replaced by the familiar curve of the Impala's trunk, Sammy's concerned face mouthing silent words at him through the glass of the rear window.

He swallowed nervously, shut the trunk and stalked towards the driver's side door, all the while trying his damnedest to hide the most painful erection he'd ever sported since the day he'd first discovered his left hand.

Sammy shot him a curious look as he got behind the wheel. "The hell?"

"M'fine," he managed to grunt through gritted teeth, starting the car and driving off in a blur of sand and squealing tires that would normally have had him whining over the damage to his baby's wheels and transmission. 

Castiel watched Dean as he got into the car with a slight frown. He had had to arrange his wings over the seat again, and if he’d been nervous about having them out before he was more so now. He sent a wordless comment to Gabriel that they had collected one of the stones, and repeated his complaint about not liking this plan. 

It didn’t change anything, but he felt better having voiced his complaints. Gabriel was less than sympathetic but he understood. He stayed quiet as they drove to a hotel and waited in the car as Dean got them rooms. He was a bit surprised it was two rooms again, not just one, but he didn’t comment. He remembered the hurried needy kiss in this very backseat and felt a little thrill of hope under this discomfort.

When Dean returned to the car and actually handed Sam his key for the second room he sort of shook himself aware. He could barely remember the drive over, could barely remember Sammy's plea that they stop before crossing back to South Dakota because they were all exhausted, could barely remember anything outside of the want, the burning need for something he couldn't name.

Sammy, predictably, shot him a questioning look when he handed over the key. Dean scowled and avoided his brother's eyes.

"Christ, fine, just tell me I'm the third wheel, why don't you," Sam bitched, shouldering past Dean to stalk his way into his own room.

Dean barely registered him, eyes locked onto a point somewhere past the Impala. He almost thought he could see something glimmering there, something just out of sight, but he ignored it as he turned and made his way to the door of his own motel room. Something like a groan escaped him as he slid the key into the lock and he paused, turned around--leaving the door wide open--and stalked back towards the Impala.

A few seconds rustling through its trunk produced the stone they'd picked up, which he palmed and took with him back towards the room. Once there he paused, turned again and shot Castiel a grin; which, God, he faked, because the sight of Cas just sitting there, wings all akimbo and dark and gorgeous in the Impala's backseat, did things to his gut which were completely unspeakable.

"You coming, feathers?" He risked a glance at the door to Sammy's room, which was blessedly closed. "Been waiting for this since that diner. Also, I'm exhausted, and there's a marathon of... some soap on TV tonight," he finished lamely.

Yet still, he couldn't even stomach the thought of anything but Cas right now; not his damned obsession with Dr. Sexy MD--which he knew was absurd--, not a lukewarm bottle of whisky, not the pretty, busty blonde from the motel front desk, not even pie. He wanted, needed Cas, felt it deep in his gut and down into the weird buzzing of his limbs; if he'd been a little less out of his mind with the need for the angel, he might have realized something was wrong.

But this was something he'd felt for weeks, and for now, as he held the motel room door open and waited for Castiel, it only felt like anticipation, like an open door for what he hadn't dared name, like an easy out.

Castiel blinked and got out of the car and followed Dean into the hotel room. He kept his wings tight to his back as he walked into room but once safely inside he relaxed them and turned to look at Dean. “You should put the keystone down, Dean,” he said softly, his eyes fixed on the stone in Dean’s hand. He knew if it touched him he wouldn’t be able to stop it from sucking up the rest of his grace like dry ground sucking up water.

He could sense something was wrong. Something was off with Dean and his behavior and Castiel knew it had something to do with the stone. Clearly Dean wanted to continue where they left at the diner, but it seemed like that was all he could think about it. That was worrying.

If he didn’t know Dean wanted this beyond the stone he wouldn’t have even contemplated allowing things to go further. He may have been in a weakened state but he was sure he could subdue Dean if he had to. He also could simply leave, that much wasn’t beyond him yet.


	10. The Green Eye'd Monster

Dean let out a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding when Castiel walked into the room; but it was a short-lived reprieve, because he felt himself turning to follow the path the angel walked as he stepped past and he turned, nostrils flaring and hand nearly crushing the cheap, loose metal handle of the door.

"I what? Oh, the stone. Sure," he breathed, eyes not leaving Castiel as he flung the crystal away. It landed somewhere near the old TV set, rebounding once against the side of the TV before coming to a stop on the desk. Behind him, Dean numbly heard the sound of the motel room slamming shut and he paused, looking at his hand in dazed confusion.

Yeah, he must've shut it, because, clearly, it was now shut. He managed a thin, strained laugh and tried to walk past Castiel; his first intention was to head for the shower, because, dammit, he'd somehow been hard since Fort Trotten and that had been hours ago, but when he brushed past the angel he stopped, twisting his head slowly towards Cas.

His heart was thrumming in his chest, wildly, like a beast on the run, and if he didn't concentrate he could almost swear he saw things, like swirling, entwining mist, at the edge of his vision. But concentrating was easy, now; he was standing close enough to reach out and slowly ghost his fingers over the solid weight of Castiel's wing, which he did.

As soon as his hand made contact though, he hissed, and before he knew it he was stepping closer and claiming the angel's mouth. And it was bliss, better and more raw than anything he could readily remember, the feel of Castiel's lips on his snaking as heat down his spine to curl in his gut and make his dick jump within the confines of his jeans.

“Dean,” Castiel started, his tone worried as Dean approached him. He didn’t even have a chance to say more. There was a brief touch to one of his wings then Dean was pressing against him and claiming his mouth in a demanding kiss. His wings flared out of their own accord as if trying to halt their momentum. 

He didn’t know what to do, if he should try to stop this because something was off about this blind lust, or if he should just go with it because it was something Dean wanted anyway. He gripped Dean’s shoulder, his hand slotting against the hand-shaped brand on Dean’s shoulder without him intending for it to. 

He pulled away, breaking the kiss but still holding on to Dean’s shoulders. “Dean, what’s gotten into you?” he asked, staring into Dean’s eyes as if hoping to find his answers there. He wanted this too, he really did. But he didn’t want it just because Dean was being influenced by something and not in his right mind. He could feel Dean’s erection pressing against his hip and felt his own body responding to it.

The sound that came out of Dean's throat when Cas pulled away should have bothered him more than it did; it was partway between a growl and a sort of strangled whine, and it devolved quickly into a moaning, mangled string of curses when Castiel pressed a hand against his shoulder. For the space of a few seconds he was grounded, his head clearing a bit, centered on a point of bright, clear awareness that started and ended with the angel's hand.

"I don't... God, I got no idea," he muttered. He stared at Castiel, at those eyes which up until a few weeks--months?--ago he would only have called a bit weird, not mesmerizing. At Cas' lips, which even now looked both pliant and just this side of chapped, as though the angel understood about wetting them occasionally but never bothered to. Dean groaned.

"I just... Fuckin' hell, Cas, I just really want you," he added in a breathless hiss, releasing the rumpled cloth of Cas' shirt in favor of grabbing at slim hips and pulling himself tight. And just like that, in that one, hot press against Castiel's still clothed form, he was gone again, as though admitting the want was enough to let it take root.

And fuck, did it ever take root. Head swimming, muttering a heated litany of 'Shit, I'm sorry, sorry, Cas, fuck,' and 'Want this, want you, so fucking hard,' in between hurried, messy licks at Castiel's lips, Dean found himself crowding closer, until there was the edge of a bed behind the angel.

His hands were rough against Castiel, tugging desperately at shirt and jacket, pulling hard to undo the crisp leather belt and slip it out of the pants with a victorious, pleased groan against the angel's lips. Touching him raw everywhere; under that conservative shirt, a slow glide of palm against flesh and a rough, teasing drag of nails, and lower, to cup and firmly palm the bulge just starting to tent the angel's slacks. Rough and sure everywhere, except when Dean encountered feathers, where his free hand turned to silk against their softness.

He eyed the bed behind Cas desperately, pressing against him until he couldn't breathe. "C'mon, Cas, please," he breathed in a tone that was almost the exact same whine he could dimly recall, through the haze, having used when trying to reach third base for the first time so many years ago. This was exactly the same feeling too, although if back then he'd thought he was going to come in his jeans, this was more that thrumming, pulsing want, the kind that Dean knew he could ride for hours, like he was buzzed on too much alcohol.

"Please," he repeated, mindless and dazed, dipping both hands down to play at the hollow of Castiel's hips--a shudder at the feel of them, deep down his spine and rising with enough force to make Dean feel like he was going to shake himself apart--before stepping that one step closer and pushing, back and down, towards the bed.

Castiel didn’t know what to do; Dean’s hands were everywhere, full of raw energy. He was lost in the haze of sensations and Dean’s breathless litany. His skin was on fire everywhere Dean’s hands had wandered to. He followed Dean’s crowding pushing direction to the bed with little resistance. 

He made a thick needy sound when Dean palmed his groin. That just about sealed it; there was no denying he wanted this too. He returned the increasingly demanding kisses and touches as best he could, pressing back against Dean readily and curling his wings around them both.

He couldn’t leave Dean like this, didn’t want to really. “Alright,” he managed to grit out against Dean’s lips dragging, his teeth along Dean’s lower lip. He shrugged out of his trench coat and suit jacket then reached up to tug at Dean’s shirt and flannel in hopes Dean would take the hint and remove them himself. Biting his lower lip, he allowed himself to be pushed back on to the bed and pulled Dean down with him.

There was a moment of near blinding panic when Castiel pulled away and Dean thought he'd be fluttering off, but Cas only gracefully wriggled out of his trench coat and suit jacket before tugging at him and sinking against the bed. Dean followed eagerly, swallowing a breathless hiss as he shuffled onto the bed and over the angel, pushing him back until the sheets were a bundled mess underneath him and he could more or less hover over him.

"God, okay. Yes, fuck, finally. This'll be better than the stupid freakin' brothel, I promise," he babbled, helpless to stop. He followed this ridiculous bit of breathless nonsense with another deep kiss, thumbs brushing against Castiel's jaw as he pressed against him. A choked moan was swallowed by Castiel's lips when Dean bucked downwards against the angel's thigh, rutting mindlessly for a few seconds before it became too much.

His own jacket and shirt were discarded in a haste as Dean shrugged out of the first and reached up to pull the shirt over his head before sending it flying somewhere at the foot of the bed. He was breathing like a race horse, which should have freaked him out; Dean went after sex with single-minded purpose, but he was actually somewhat laid back between the sheets, all his usual drive pin-pointed and concentrated on making sure nobody ever left Dean Winchester's bed and forgot about it afterwards.

There was none of that here, no hint of his usual care, and Castiel's dress shirt was the first casualty as he simply gripped the front of it and pulled, a groan rising out of him at the excruciatingly satisfying sound of tearing cotton and snapping buttons. After that of course he didn't have much thought for anything except the sight of all that bare skin, and he descended on Castiel's chest like a man dying of thirst, mouth latching onto one pale nipple.

He worried Castiel's flesh between his teeth, soothing the sting with flat strokes of his tongue as he moved trembling hands down, his fingers dipping over the faintest hint of ribs and--God, he was starting to resent that coat for hiding so much of the angel, who was all lean, slim lines under his fingers--the sharp, upward swell of hipbones. 

Castiel grunted when Dean simply ripped his shirt open. If he couldn’t simply restore it with a bit of grace he would have been upset but he didn’t really have a chance to think too hard on it because Dean’s mouth closed around one of his nipples. That caused him to let out a strangled groan and arch up against Dean.

The hands running over his torso were also wildly distracting but far less than Dean’s mouth. He let his own hands wander over the strong expanse of Dean’s back. It was strange, he could name every muscle he touched but his mind only supplied him with the cursory information like the sensation of muscles bunching and moving as Dean explored his torso, the smoothness of the skin he touched. 

“Dean,” he managed to gasp out, his hands finding their way to Dean’s hips. He didn’t know what else to do or say.

Drunk on flesh and skin and the by-now familiar scent of Cas--old hints of a strange soap, that tang of something otherworldly, buzzing with something that clearly wasn't all human and, now, a strong lingering smell of hotel soap--he was barely even aware he'd wrestled Castiel's pants open. As soon as his hands met warm, firm flesh though, he groaned again, the sound more urgent as he slid the thin linen down past Castiel's hips.

The ghosting touch of fingertips against his shoulders came as a shock, as though he hadn’t expected Cas to be on board with this, somehow. It was grounding, for a while, and Dean shuddered under the touch, tried so hard to slow the fuck down and do this right, do this the way he knew how. But he was almost hard enough that it was painful now, and when Castiel’s hand slunk down to his hips the choice was pretty much taken away from him.

He sat back, because he had to take a breather or his heart would explode in his chest, and just looked as he pulled Castiel's slacks down and away, leaving them to pool at his feet. He noticed his hands were shaking and he steadied them against Cas' hips, lowering himself down to messily mouth and nip at the inside of one pale thigh, shoulders trembling. "Holy hell, Cas... Are... sure you want this?" he muttered, which was a stupid question, because the evidence of that was lying not three inches away from Dean's face, and he released a strangled moan before leaning up and chancing one long, slow lick up the underside of Castiel’s cock.

It was jarring, not because he hadn’t done this in a while—like ridin’ a bike, you never really forgot—or because he’d been expecting anything other than the warm, hard slick of soft skin, but because he was shocked at just how much he wanted this. Something like a red, pulsing haze descended on him then and he blinked himself aware to find that he’d been sucking two fingers into his mouth and was now easing them past Castiel’s parted thighs and into him. He was floored by the clenching heat of him, and a small, nagging voice—God, he’s never done this before, easy, easy, Jesus—rose briefly in his mind before being swamped by need.

He was choking on his own breath, slowly working Castiel open, eyes flicking madly from the tight clench of him around his fingers and back up at the angel’s face. He realized—belatedly, because he was moving his fingers in earnest now, long, slow glides past the tight ring of muscle—that he hadn’t waited for permission, hadn’t waited for Cas to say he was okay with this.

Castiel managed to get a choked moan out as Dean’s hand found its way into his pants. This at least Castiel knew and understood what to do. He arched into Dean’s touch again and lifted his hips when his pants got tugged down. He sat up a little bit when Dean slid down and between his legs.

He opened his mouth to answer Dean’s question but before he could something warm and moist worked its way up the underside of his dick and the only sound that came would was a choked nearly sobbing moan. It took him a moment to understand that Dean had –licked- him and was slowly working two fingers into him. It didn’t hurt, it might have if he was mortal but the fingers inside him-–which abstractly was a strange thought--were insistent and demanding.

“Dean,” he half whined, staring down at Dean. “I want this…please don’t stop.” He pressed his hips back against Dean’s hand.

A stuttering, sharp gasp escaped Dean when Cas lifted his hips and bore down against him, and he dissolved then, voice choking around a few choice expletives as he quickened his hand for a few moments. But he was gone, wrestling his other hand down to fight furiously with the button and fly on his jeans. He grunted in frustration when he couldn’t get them down fast enough and grudgingly slid his fingers out of Castiel’s body, missing the warmth almost immediately, to shove his jeans down past his hips.

If he’d been conscious enough to notice, he would have noted that this was too easy, too right, that no virgin had ever opened up to him like this. As it was—and because he knew Castiel wasn’t human, even though it was hard, right now, to wrap his mind around the fact—he only fought against his boots briefly before toeing them off and leaned up to drape himself between Castiel’s splayed thighs.

And God, but he could’ve simply rutted against him, should have, because this all was twelve kinds of wrong and he was too quick, too sharp and too keyed up. But he couldn’t, and didn’t, leaning back slightly to spit crudely into his hand before slicking himself with a low groan. He couldn’t wait, didn’t want to wait, needed to feel Castiel’s heat around his cock like he freaking needed air to breathe, and wanted to watch him, see the angel’s face as he slid into him.

It was only when he was pressing into Castiel’s body, shoulders and arms shaking with the tension of that first, slow thrust, that he realized he’d said all of that out loud. “God, you… Cas… feel perfect, fuck,” he groaned, pressing close until he bottomed out and his hips met firm flesh. He was leaning, hovering over Castiel now, and he closed the distance to capture the angel’s lips as he reached down, curled his hand around Cas’ leg just under his knee and pushed upwards, sinking another last half inch into him with a breathless, sobbing moan.

Whatever restraint he had left lasted all of a few seconds and then he was moving, rolling his hips in long, deep thrusts that had him clawing at Castiel’s hip and panting against his throat. His hand flailed itself free from where it had been bending the angel’s leg, scrabbled for purchase against the rumpled sheets underneath them both, found the strange softness of feathers, and Dean dug his fingers in, unsure if he was stroking or holding on for dear life as he rode the rising crest of pleasure.

Castiel watched Dean fight with his jeans with rapt attention, unaware his mouth was open slightly and he was breathing hard. He wrapped his arms around Dean’s neck as the man settled between his thighs. He couldn’t have anticipated the feeling of Dean sinking into him. It was the sort of closeness he had never expected to find with a mortal.

It wasn’t comparable to the meld the host always seemed to be in, that constant hum in the back of his head. But the sensation of Dean being inside him, their bodies pressed together and Dean’s rough babbling was maddening. He couldn’t do much more than follow Dean’s lead.

Returning the kiss, he pulled Dean closer, making needy little sounds with every little movement of Dean’s hips. But the constant pleas to his father were… distracting. The angel clamped a hand over Dean’s blaspheming mouth and with a twist of his hips rolled them over so he was straddling Dean’s hips. He flared his wings around them both and leaned over Dean.

“You blaspheme too much in bed, Dean,” he growled into Dean’s ear, his hips rolling roughly in time with Dean’s thrusts.

Dean managed another few short thrusts, his thready groan lost between Castiel's lips, before he was rearing back, fingers still tight in the unsettling silk of feathers, because he couldn't not watch this, couldn't miss the chance of seeing Cas lying underneath him like this. He opened his mouth around a sharp curse and almost choked, because Castiel's hand came up and clamped a hand hard against his mouth. 

The angel twisted like a motherfucking snake underneath him, rolling with a grace that Dean would never get sick of seeing; it was like watching Cas roll and duck under blades, an echo and a reminder that, yeah, Dean was taking liberties here. He realized he'd probably hit a nerve when he found himself lying flat on his back, his cock still somehow buried within Castiel, and the angel--God, it was like that weird dream image all over again, only so much better for the tight, real heat of him--leaned over him, dark and raw and fucking terrifying.

He swallowed back a short groan, the noise hovering between a choked laugh and something needier, against Castiel's hand. But the angel was still--God, yes, so good--moving against him, sinking back onto his length like he'd been freaking made for this, and Dean couldn't find it in himself to care if the tables had been slightly upturned.

Both of his hands travelled to Castiel's hips, then lower, until he could cup hard against the firmness of his ass and pull, lifting the angel up and holding him there. He managed a few mangled words against Cas' hand still over his mouth--'I don't freaking care'--, dug his fingers in and bucked, slamming inside of Castiel's body even as he arched and trashed backwards against the bed.

Again, another sharp glide of friction, and then one more, and he was lost to it, thrusting wildly into Cas even as his shoulders and arms protested the strain of trying, probably in vain, to keep Castiel exactly where he was, hovering a few inches over Dean's lap. He knew he wouldn't last much longer, could already feel the tight curl of an impending orgasm curling into his gut, so Dean grudgingly released the angel's hips, let him sink back in a blinding shock of pleasure and heat deep onto his cock and wrapped one hand around Castiel's flesh. 

His hips stuttered wildly once he got his hand around Cas, as though he could somehow feel it himself; he was hanging by a thread, he knew, and it'd never felt so damned unavoidable before, so fucking urgent that he race towards getting his rocks off like a man possessed. But if he let go now he wouldn't get to see Castiel break against him, and Dean released a sobbing, frustrated whine against the angel's palm, pumping at his shaft in furious, firm strokes.

Castiel had a whole growly sermon on Dean and his blasphemy; he’d been ready to deliver it without stopping his movement. But Dean seemed to have other ideas, because he found himself held more or less in place as Dean thrust up into him. He bowed over Dead, his wings flexing reactively in time with the little thrusts he was managing against Dean’s hands. 

He could have easily kept the pace he wanted but Dean’s wild upward thrusts were hitting something that sent sparks of pleasure throughout his body and his toes were tingling again. The angel moaned when Dean let his hips go and he sank back down onto Dean’s member. He removed his hand from Dean’s mouth a few moments after Dean gripped him and started stroking.

It was clear he wasn’t going to last long at that pace. The lights flickered and dimmed a bit as he reached that edge. He groaned and bit his lip and struggled to keep from falling off that cliff. It was pointless, because a few more swift strokes from Dean sent him over the edge with a strangled shout that might have been Dean’s name.

He didn’t have the mojo to cause a light show like the last night. But he shattered all the same, with the lights flickering and dimming and his wings snapping open with a rush of air. He felt several of the feathers that had been as the mercy of Dean’s clutching hand slide lose after the sharp movement of his wing.

Dean inhaled a sharp, short gasp of air as soon as Castiel's hand was gone from his mouth, and he sank back down gratefully against the mattress, throwing his head back with a long, drawn-out moan. He was gone, now, functioning purely on automatic pilot, his hand still moving swiftly over the silky warmth of--fuck, he was fucking an angel, and it was mind-blowing--Castiel's cock.

He managed a few breathless expletives, because nobody had ever managed to curb his tongue in bed, and opened lazy, lust-blown eyes to stare in shock as Cas arched and twitched beautifully on his lap. And he was waiting for it, nearly holding his breath for the moment when he could see Cas shatter, but even the knowledge of it did nothing to prepare him.

Castiel's wings snapped out, and every light around them, even the ones they hadn't turned on, flared briefly in a weird, rhythmic pattern. It was impossible, all of this was, but the tight clench of Cas freaking milking him as the angel painted his stomach was absurdly, shockingly real.

And Dean's thin grasp on himself broke with a strangled shout; he released Castiel's length, slicking wet and sticky fingers over the angel's hips, and bucked, thrusting himself as deep as he could go as his own release crashed over him, obliterating everything but the silken, wet heat of Castiel around him, crushing and absolute.

He was pretty sure he howled something that Cas wouldn't have approved of, but it took several seconds for the bliss and red-hot numbness to recede. Once it did he collapsed bonelessly onto the rumpled bed. "Fuck," was all he could manage for a while, and even that came out distorted and strange. He reached up, grappled blindly for Castiel's neck and pulled him closer to meet him in a lazy, sated kiss.

And if he put more of himself in that after-fuck kiss than he usually did, if he clutched at Castiel's neck and sighed into the kiss, well... he tried not to dwell too deeply on it. When he pulled away he was gulping for breath, staring hazily at the sheets with a lazy smile on his lips. Until he realized what the dark shapes on the pale bed, right under his numb fingers, were.

It seemed impossible; he'd almost broken all the bones in his hand punching the smug, desirable little bastard once. There was just no way he'd just pulled out a handful of feathers just now. "Freaking hell, Cas... Tell me I didn't... hurt you?" he muttered, frowning slightly as he fingered one of the discarded feathers.

Castiel blinked dazedly down Dean and carefully folded his wings. He wasn’t used to being dazed or the pleased warm lethargy that was seeping into his bones. He shifted carefully and made a low sound as Dean slid out of him. A thought cleaned them both up. “Hurt me?” he asked, confused, then turned to look at the feathers Dean was fingering.

Shaking his head. “No, you didn’t hurt me. They were loose already; they probably would have come out on their own eventually,” he said with a shrug. “I’m not entirely sure you can hurt me, Dean.” He smiled and fluffed his feathers before absently shrugging again. “It’s not as if I need them for flight while in a vessel.”

With a little sigh, he moved off Dean to lay next to him. He wanted to curl his wings around Dean and stay close but he remembered Dean’s reaction to the last time he’d done that and kept that desire to himself.

Dean followed the movements of Castiel's wings with his eyes, noting, as he tried to get his breathing back under control, how they shifted and twitched with the angel's mood; it was strange, as strange as seeing Cas lose control had been. That mask of stone had slipped, and now Dean could almost peek under it and see beneath. See that it wasn't just a vessel and an ideal, or a firm, purpose-driven creature.

There hadn't been a purpose to tonight, beyond a fucking awesome good time, he was pretty sure. 

Relief flooded through him when Cas dismissed the shed feathers as insignificant, and if he had ever found it strange to think of feathers as a by-product of awesome sex, well, right now, he couldn't have cared less. And Castiel was stretching next to him, looking for all the world like a giant cat, all mussed-up hair and flushed cheeks. The angel had never looked so fucking human, down to the faint scruffiness of his jaw and the hint of redness to his lips--there was a slight smile there, subtle but ever so easy to notice-- and Dean couldn't, wouldn't, let himself think twice before he rolled over and sprawled against Castiel's side.

It was warm, and probably way closer than he would care to admit; for once, he stamped down on the urge to smirk and shrug this away and simply relaxed. 

It felt easier than it should have. 

"Okay, good," he muttered, struggling to stay awake. "Yeah, I just... checking." He spared a thought towards the fact that he felt neither sticky nor sweaty, biting back a faint chuckle; he'd never even figured Castiel's little mojo tricks could be so handy.

He was considering that when his eyes fell on the discarded crystal, lying about twelve or fifteen feet away somewhere near the cheap TV set. It nagged at him, like he'd forgotten about something, but he was too sleepy and warm and fucked out to care. "This was awesome. You... awesome," he mumbled numbly, his mind full of blissed-out fuzz as he stretched a tired and aching leg up and over Castiel's hip and promptly fell asleep, face pressed against the angel's throat.

Castiel wrapped his arms around Dean when he pressed close. He didn’t want to disturb Dean by suggesting they get under the blankets before Dean fell asleep so he just wrapped his wings around Dean. He was still humming from what they’d done; it was energizing in a visceral sort of way. 

“Your concern is appreciated, Dean,” he said with another smile. He was still thrown off by the pushing want Dean had been lost in and the same pulling drain on his grace from the stone. But he was distracted by the press of Dean against him and the lulling warmth. “Yes, it was… awesome,” he said, watching as Dean fell asleep pressed against him.

As tough and stubborn as Dean was, he was childlike when he was sleeping peacefully. So Castiel would watch over him while he slept, because even at nearly a third of his strength thanks to the keystone, he didn’t need to sleep. He listened into the host's chaotic song as he did so, enjoying the mingling of physical closeness with Dean and the strong grounding power of the host rising and falling.

He wished he could share that feeling with Dean. He knew Dean had been moved by just hearing the host; perhaps someday, Dean would still be aware enough after the fact that he could share it with the hunter.

Waking up was a completely disorientating experience. For one thing, Dean could barely remember the last time he'd been so completely wrapped in warmth. Probably Lisa, and as he fuzzily thought that he shuffled closer and the warmth resolved itself as bare limbs and a firm, lithe body. And buzzing, thrumming softness draped down over him to tickle against his calves. That puzzled him enough that he opened sleep-filled eyes--only actually managed to crack one open, actually--to see what it was.

And, okay, that one hadn't been another trippy dream. And the buzzing warmth around him really was Castiel's wings, which, yeah, he could now admit seemed a lot less terrifying and a hell of a lot sexier. He wondered briefly what that meant about him. 

Cas wasn't sleeping, simply laying there, the world's biggest, most soft-skinned and loose-limbed furnace. Despite the very real fact that they were cuddling--God, not spooning, at least, he would never let himself live that one down--and that he was apparently awake yet still pressing closer, Dean didn't feel in any hurry to get up.

Mostly because, and this he realized as he slipped a hand low against Castiel's side to make sure he hadn't imagined those hips, he felt like he'd been hit by a freight train; there wasn't an inch of him that didn't ache. He groaned, a low, gravelly sound, and muttered against Castiel's side, too comfortable to push himself away and just a bit mortified by the complete ease of this ridiculous chick-flick moment.

Dean resisted the urge to bust out a smarmy 'was it as good for you as it was for me?', but only barely. "God, I'd say 'good morning' but I have no idea what time it is," he croaked instead, his breath hitching in his throat as he foolishly attempted to stretch. "Fuck, what did we do, work our entire way through the damned Kama Sutra?" he whined, rolling one shoulder experimentally.

To his horror, he felt like he wanted to sleep again, like he could stay here for hours and still not feel rested. And that's when it hit him, when he realized he'd felt something like this before, this bone-deep tiredness, only on a much smaller scale. "Son of a bitch," he gurgled as he pushed himself up onto an elbow, turning to glare at the innocuous little crystal still lying exactly where he'd left it. "That thing... put the whammy on us." 

And then, to his further horror, he felt a faint blush rise like a traitorous hand-painted sign on his face; he could remember the hurried need of the night before, how he'd pretty much just dived in, but most of all he just knew what he'd done hadn't actually been caused by the damned stone at all. Maybe encouraged him, but not all that much.

Castiel was a bit surprised when Dean pressed closer while still mostly asleep. He blinked slowly as Dean groaned and made generally pained sounds. He reached out to press his fingers to Dean’s temple; it was a foolish waste of energy to heal Dean of muscle aches but he did it anyway. “It’s nearly 11 a.m. and Sam walked past the door twice debating on making sure you’re not dead,” he said with a small smile.

“I believe the keystone influenced you on a base level,” he said, tilting his head to the side and regarding Dean with interest. Something occurred to him and he pulled away slightly. “You regret it,” he stated flatly, pulling his wings tight to himself.

It wasn’t surprising. Perhaps he should have just put Dean to sleep and let him sleep whatever the stone had done to him off. Giving in to his desire may have ruined everything and that what disturbing. He didn’t want to say that it scared him, but it did unsettle him. He was under no misconception that what he and Dean had done before would be followed by one or both of them professing their true love for each other. He still wasn’t even sure if he’d recognize love, and Dean didn’t do ‘chick flick moments’.

"Of course he did, that giant nagging princess," Dean muttered. His brain had no problem at all supplying him with the mental image of Sammy, looking all worried and put upon, roaming the hall outside the hotel room door and wondering whether he should just bust on in. Thank God for small mercies, because Sam had apparently decided to stay away.

He was still stuck on the disturbing mental image of Sammy's face if he walked in on them right now when he felt Castiel shift against him; the distracting, buzzing caress of feathers was suddenly gone from his skin, and Dean managed both an involuntary shiver as the cool air hit him and a very voluntary grunt. "I don't. Dude, I never regret sex." He paused, raked his memory and amended, "Well, I almost never regret sex. I just... figured this... that you..."

He frowned, back-pedalled a bit through Castiel's previous words. "Wait. You said the stone influenced 'me'. I thought that thing was like a grace-sucking magnet for you," he said, turning back to pin Castiel under his gaze. Had there really been only one influence at work last night? Because if that was the case, well, Dean was fully on board with exploring this further. He was furiously beat, but he could easily admit last night had been one of the best damned nights of his life, and seeing the angel arch against him in release--never mind that little serpentine twist when he'd ended up plastered to the sheets--had definitely been one for the books.

"Cas? Seriously... No regrets. And, I mean, I'd planned you to get sent off from the v-card club by a pro, but... Yeah, this was much better," he said, before slowly and carefully lowering himself back down. But Castiel had drawn back, and his wings weren't drifting over Dean anymore. Not good. "I'm just... really bad at this morning after stuff, man. I mean, notoriously bad."

He couldn't meet Castiel's eyes for a moment--God, he'd always hated these mornings, and most of the time he'd be gone before this awkward even had a chance to happen--but it lasted only a few seconds, and when he finally managed to stop freaking out like a damned girl he carefully stretched back down opposite Cas, slotting his hand back in place against one creamy hip. "I don't... Let's just not make this any weirder than it has to be, right? You're here, and I'm here and... fuck everything else, for now," he added, talking to his own brain as much as he was talking to Castiel.

After a moment he sighed and closed his eyes. "You said eleven a.m., didn't you? Probably should get up."

“It does drain my grace, but the only thing that influenced me last night was you, Dean,” Castiel said with a little shrug. He watched Dean closely looking hints at what he was thinking, still stubbornly refusing to dig into Dean’s thoughts. 

“I don’t regret it either,” he said at length after Dean had finished speaking and when Dean shifted closer to him he curled a wing around him again. “I don’t know the social conventions for mornings after, Dean. So I’ll follow your lead on this.” 

“We should at the very least let Sam know you haven’t died.” He tilted his head to the side. “We should get the keystone back to Bobby’s soon. I would rather put a lot of distance between myself and it.” His feathers fluffed up in quiet agitation. He had had all night to deal with the drain on his grace and it was starting to get to him. He just wanted to get away from it so he didn’t feel weighed anymore and so close to mortal.

"The only thing that influenced you--" Dean repeated dumbly, and Christ, he would swear he'd meant to stiffen and look up, but Castiel's wing--he'd never get used to this--draped over him again and he collapsed back down, muscles turning to jelly. The thought that he'd been raging hard and close to uncontrollable while Cas had just been, well, Cas, was mind-boggling.

He wanted to say more, wanted to add that there were no conventions for morning afters, just normal cuddling up and lazy breakfasts, but he was wired wrong, he knew, and couldn't offer much more than a sad grunt. "So we're both of us really bad at this, man. Like, spectacularly bad," he said, but there was a smile curling at his lips, even though it was shaky. 

Because Cas had no freaking idea, had no basis for comparison, and if Dean messed this up then he was truly fucked, and he might as well just roll over and let whatever Apocalypse was stalking after them just plough through him. "I'm... sorry, Cas. You should've said the goddamned thing was bothering you," he finally grunted. And it was harder than he'd thought it would be to disentangle himself from Castiel's side; not because he was sore--because, fuck, of course the first thing Cas had done was to get rid of the aches--but because he was surprisingly comfortable and the room was cold and... well... he could find no valid excuse, really.

He stretched and sat up, shot Castiel a hopefully encouraging grin, bent down for a quick kiss which surprised even him and shuffled out of bed. He made his way to the small shelf which held both the TV set and the stone, scooped up the crystal and bent to make it disappear within the pockets of his duffel bag. 

"Better? I'll just have a quick shower and make sure Sammy knows I haven't yet bit the dust, okay?" he asked before disappearing into the bathroom like the coward he was, where he had a few moments' worth of quiet freakout, all on his lonesome. This was it, this was 'the thing' he'd managed to avoid for all of his adult life, and it had just snuck up on him with a vengeance. For those few minutes when he'd laid in that bed he'd wanted to forget everything, forget the freaking angels and demons and heaven and hell and just lie there, comfortable and warm and safe.

Part of him raged, snorted and smirked and stated that he couldn't have that, wouldn't ever have that. What was left of him was howling, beating at the walls of his mind that Castiel could be trusted, knew more about him, had seen him at his worst and was still there, and that he should stop acting like a child. He thunked his head against the cheap woodgrain of the door and waited until the panic receded, until he could breathe again, and then he went through the motions and got into the shower.

It was quick, and when he got out he felt no better than before; but he swore to himself he would at least try.

Castiel blinked as Dean pressed a brief kiss to his lips and got up. He nodded and watched Dean head into the bathroom. He didn’t follow this time, knew that Dean needed a moment alone. He sat up on the bed and after a moment of thought folded his wings and hid them away.

The angel didn’t know what he was feeling about what had happened. He wanted it happen again, he knew that much, had enjoyed every touch and feeling that had happened. Castiel decided to put his clothing on the human way this time just to see what it was like. First though, he had to find all his clothes, which was more work than he’d expected it to be. 

He had a sneaking suspicion that Dean was freaking out over things. Expecting things that Castiel couldn’t give or didn’t understand. His instincts told him to try and comfort Dean, but he knew that comfort wouldn’t be well received. So he simply spent the time Dean used in the shower getting dressed. Though his shirt was beyond human repair, a little grace set it to rights. 

He could still sense the stone like nothing had changed. He debated on mentioning it again to Dean but decided against it. He didn’t want to seem like he was complaining about a minor discomfort. 

Dean emerged from the shower feeling slightly more human and slightly less panicky, a cheap, thin cotton towel wrapped around his waist. The bathroom mirror had revealed he looked significantly less beat up and exhausted than he felt, and a hell of a lot more alive than he had a couple weeks ago. He blamed it on the absurd amounts of sleep he seemed to be getting and left it at that, sauntering into the small hotel room proper with a small grin on his face.

The sight of Cas made his grin widen considerably; it was subtle, but somehow the stoic angel looked slightly off this morning, and Dean hoped it had more to do with what they'd done than with the damned keystone. He was also secretly disappointed to note that the wings were gone, and he briefly wondered exactly when the twenty-four hours had been up.

He rummaged around his pack, threw a fresh change of clothes onto the bed and dropped his towel with none of the shame he'd displayed a couple days ago. "We're gonna unload that stone at Bobby's as fast as possible, Cas," he said conversationally as he wrestled himself into a mostly clean pair of jeans, bouncing once to fit them over his ass and zipping up.

"I'm starving--like, seriously, I'd even settle for Bobby's burnt toast right now--but it can wait until after we get you away from from the stone. I'll take us out for waffles. You'll like waffles," he added, and then because he couldn't help himself Dean padded over, barefoot and slipping a threadbare grey t-shirt over his head as he went, before stopping a few inches in front of the angel.

The tie was crooked, a lot more than it usually was, and the tan trench coat seemed to have been thrown on so loosely it might as well have been wearing the angel. Dean reached automatically--Christ, he'd done it before, so this was hardly any great stretch--and tugged the tie back into place before smoothing it down. Then he pulled the collar of Cas' trench coat up and then back down, absent-mindedly patting the lapels down.

"Hey," he said stupidly, because he had to say something to account for the fact that he was staring, and probably grinning just a bit.

Of course, this is when Sammy chose to make his presence known to the world, by knocking twice on the door, waiting approximately half a millisecond and sticking his head in the room. In deference to the fact that he wasn't stupid, he had both eyes screwed firmly shut as he called out.

"Dean, seriously, not to walk all over your little lazy morning here, but I'm starting to get worri--"

"Jesus, Sammy, we're fine. Just overslept. And nobody's naked so you can cut that shit out right now," Dean griped, though the grin was still in place.

Sammy flinched but visibly deflated in relief, opened his eyes and walked in. "The coffee in the lobby diner sucks; avoid it. We going? Still got the stone?"

"Yep, we're good to go, and," he rolled his eyes, "of course I still got the damned stone. Turns out the things don't just drain angels and demons, they also go all Jedi mind-control on people." Dean settled back on the edge of the bed and pulled his socks on, then shuffled around, found his boots and bent to lace them up over his feet. 

Sammy's eyes followed him and he opened his mouth to say something, then quickly closed it and gestured a bit helplessly at the bed. "Uh?" It was clearly a sort of question, and Dean turned around, stared at the bed and blinked. The half dozen or so large feathers he'd apparently grabbed too enthusiastically last night were still lying over the tangled sheets. 

He shrugged.

Sammy looked horrified.

The fact that Dean was fixing his tie and coat amused Castiel to no end. He didn’t mind that Dean liked to fuss with his attire, it was rather endearing. He would have said something but Sam barged in. “Hello, Sam,” was what he said instead of whatever he’d meant to say to Dean.

He watched Dean shuffle around and get his boots on. He tilted his head at the feathers on the bed and with a twitch of his fingers turned them to ash. He didn’t care if Sam and seen them or not. He wondered just what horrified Sam so. 

Sure, on some level Sam was probably horrified by the signs of what he and Dean had done. But for what reason? Was it because he was an angel or because he was a man? His habit of keeping himself out of Dean’s mind was starting to extend to keep himself out of Sam’s mind as well.

Dean watched the feathers burn and disappear, leaving the bed covers stained dark but otherwise untouched; he resisted the urge to glare at his brother, because, damn it, those damned feathers had been awesome.

Sammy just shot him one of his patented disapproving looks, and the unsaid conversation in his brother's eyes went, he imagined, a bit like 'Jesus, Dean, you're hopeless. We meet real honest-to-God angels and you manage to deflower the only one that's apparently on your side'. To be fair, most of that little imagined rant was from Dean's own conscience, but his conscience and Sam's bitchy moods had probably been rooming together for too long and were starting to rub off on each other.

He just shrugged, tied off his boots and got up with a slight wince. "Okay, let's not stay in here a second longer, please. Cas..." Dean hesitated, shot the angel a faint grin and motioned towards the hotel room door. "Give us a sec, would you? Car's right outside, this'll only take a minute." And then he turned, grabbed his brother's arm and nearly propelled them both out the door.

As soon as they were outside, Sammy rounded on him. "What the hell did you do? I mean, this is low even for you; he's an angel, Dean, and shit, you know how he has this 'profound bond'," Sam air-quoted with a faint sneer, "with you."

"Just... Don't, okay? I have no fucking idea what I'm doing. None. I mean, this all just sprung itself on me faster than a damned vamp at a Twilight convention, Sammy. I don't... I didn't... the stone, he said there was a compulsion and fuck but that's not even true and this is all just slipping through my fingers and I have no idea," Dean hissed, reaching up to rub a hand over his face.

There was a long pause, and he could almost feel Sammy's eyes on him. "... Right, well... Just, how many people do you trust, Dean?"

Dean almost choked at the insipid fondness in his brother's voice. "Don't," he repeated. "God, Sammy, don't. I know I'm fucking everything up, okay? I couldn't help it and now I don't..." He couldn't even say it, how he couldn't stop even if he tried. Which he didn't want to do. "He's fine, though. Still Cas, still all juiced up. Popped his cherry and no smiting or falling happened, okay?"

Sam winced, looked away. "Didn't need to know that."

"Then stop freakin' pestering me about it."

"God, you're a jerk."

And just like that, the tension ebbed away from Dean's shoulders. Sammy was okay; he'd be okay, he'd deal with this new curveball Dean was throwing his way, again. "Yeah, well, get used to it, princess. M'not gonna change at my age."

"We'll see," Sam snorted. "I'm going to go and get my stuff from my own room. If you get breakfast without me after all this time I spent waiting for you to get your ass out of bed, I will end you."

"You can try, squirt," Dean retorted, watching Sammy's retreating back with a tired smile before pushing away from the wall. He turned and got back into the room, hoping to hell Cas hadn't heard any of that, to collect his bag and hopefully be on his merry way. Breakfast called now, and all this complicated stuff could wait until after he had eaten something to settle the weird butterflies in his gut.

Castiel tilted his head as the brothers left the room, wondering if they knew he could hear them talking. He shook his head and took himself to the Impala with a bit of power. It was more taxing than it should have been; he really needed to get away from the keystone. 

Perhaps the next time he and Dean were alone he’d suggest that maybe they just leave what they’d done to a onetime thing if it worried Dean so much. He was fine with that; sure he’d enjoyed himself and would enjoy a repeat but he wouldn’t press for it.

He tilted his head and listened into the host. Azrael’s voice was humming louder than normal, more ‘there’ than the archangel tended to be. Something was up, maybe he could get away with going to investigate and let Sam and Dean take the keystone back to Bobby’s alone.

The room was empty--a small relief--when Dean stumbled back in, and he quickly shouldered his bag, caught himself staring stupidly at the mussed sheets on the bed and hurried the hell out of there. Sam met him halfway down the corridor, gave him a thumbs up and stated the rooms had already been paid for, so they were good to go.

Dean hesitated only a second, checked his bag for the stone and made his way towards the car. Cas was already sitting on the backseat, as though he owned the damned thing, and Sammy caught the grin Dean directed at Castiel before he could properly school his face.

"What?" he griped as he opened the Impala's trunk and shoved his duffel bag into it, perhaps a bit more forcefully than was strictly necessary. 

Sam shrugged and pushed his own, smaller, bag into the trunk. "Nothing. You just look oh-so-radiant."

"Shut the fuck up, Samantha," Dean growled back, slamming the trunk down as Sammy reared away from it with a decidedly smug snigger. 

And then it was on, because Sam said, "I hope you invite me to the wedding, I'd hate to miss it."

"Jesus Christ, Sammy, I swear I'll leave you here and you can hitchhike a ride with some trucker named Butch who'll grope your thigh and call you sweetheart."

"You wouldn't," Sam retorted, and the smug smirk he shot back at Dean could've cut glass. 

Dean huffed, watched his brother duck under his sight and get in the car, and for a second he couldn't quite keep the massive smirk from nearly splitting his face in two. God, when had he last joked around with Sam this much? He couldn't remember, and if his ego had to take a few hits, well... He'd sure as hell bitch about it, but he didn't care, not really.

He got behind the wheel and snorted, reached down under his seat and brandished his most fearsome weapon. Instead of facing Sammy with it, he twisted in his seat and shot Cas a brilliant grin, sticking the tape into the Impala's radio as he blindly started the car. "Tell me, Cas, you ever hear the gloriousness that is Ted Nugent? Because we're all about to get really closely acquainted."

"I hate you," Sam muttered, nearly inaudible from his seat. 

Castiel blinked. “Ted Nugent?” he asked blankly then frowned as the most terrible music he’d ever heard blared over the speakers. He was tempted to destroy it just to make it stop. Or to leave, though Dean seemed to be in high spirits, as did Sam, so he would tolerate the horrible music for their sake. 

The trip back to Bobby’s went relatively quickly, all things considered. Even if Castiel was twitchy to get as far away from the keystone as possible, he didn’t leave. Dean’s good temper was rare enough that it made it worth the discomfort to stay. 

When they pulled up to Bobby’s, the older hunter was waiting for them on his porch looking surlier than normal. Next to him stood a familiar red-headed figure that was leaning on the porch rail and smoking. It was clear on close inspection this was not Azrael, just his vessel. Her hair was tumbling into one eye and she wasn’t wearing a suit jacket, her tie was missing and her crimson dress shirt was unbuttoned for the first three buttons. Not to mention Azrael had never once smoked in front of them whereas his vessel was clearly smoking.

The drive back to Bobby’s was thankfully uneventful, and Dean spent most of the way over in a mix of happily repressing whatever the hell had happened and enjoying the music. If he revelled in the way Cas seemed to twitch angrily every time a particularly long guitar solo happened or in the endless frowns Sammy sent his way, he didn’t actually mention it. 

Sammy must’ve known, though, because he caught the edge of a hidden smile behind the scowls every once in a while. After Ted Nugent, they moved on to Zeppelin, then a mix tape that Dean had made years and years ago, back when he’d been finishing his GED, which had, amongst other things, Norman Greenbaum and The Who and Styx. It was glorious, and even the perturbed frown on Castiel’s serious face pleased him. 

When they finally pulled up to Bobby’s place, Dean almost swore under his breath. Right there on the porch, Azrael sat, looking for all the world like a disgruntled fashion model bewailing a recent catwalk letdown. Dean shot Sammy a helpless look, and they both slowly got out of the car.

“Anything with this picture strike you as odd?” Dean said, making his way to the trunk to wrestle out his duffel bag. 

Sammy was still standing by the car, looking uncertain. “The smoke is a bit unexpected.”

“Tell me about it.” Dean pulled the duffel out of the trunk and wrestled it onto his shoulder, then turned towards Castiel. He had to wrestle with an honest-to-God desire to shuffle closer to the angel, to claim what he figured was his, to make whatever the fuck it was they had public. It took nearly all his willpower not to do so, and he was almost grateful, because Sammy was already shooting him odd looks.

“Cas? What gives? This…” He gestured with one hand helplessly, meeting the girl’s eyes as she puffed out a stream of blue smoke into the warm, windless air. “… Is just twelve kinds of weird, man.”

“That’s not Azrael,” Castiel said, tilting his head to the side. “That’s just his vessel.” He gave the girl a hard look as if trying to figure out why she was Azrael-free. The hard look didn’t seem to tell him anything but he did head towards the porch, frowning.

Bobby had his arms crossed as was glaring at the girl, who looked entirely unfazed by his stink eye. “’Bout time you idjits got back,” the older hunter grumbled as Azrael’s vessel snorted and pointedly blew a smoke ring at him. “I’ve been stuck with her for nearly a day.”

“It’s not like I wanted to be here either, old man,” she pointed out as she put her cigarette out on the bottom of her shoe, set the butt on the rail burnt end facing her, reached into her shirt and pulled out a crumpled soft pack of cigarettes, tapping another out. She turned it filter down and struck the filter against the rail a few times before inspecting the end critically. She tapped it a few more times before licking her thumb and fore-finger and twisting the end of the cigarette up and sticking it between her lips. The soft pack went back into her shirt and a zippo came out. She lit the cigarette and put the zippo away. 

“So you are the infamous Winchesters,” she muttered, picking up her used cigarette butt and rolling it between her fingers. “You look like pretty idiots, no wonder you kicked off the damned apocalypse.” She carefully pulled the filter out of its paper and balled the paper up then flicked it away. The filter she shredded into four quarters and also balled up to be flicked away.

“Excuse me?” Sam said, stepping forward and glaring at the girl. Dean slapped a hand against his brother’s puffed up chest, though it cost him dearly to do so. He frowned, lip curling upward as he stared down at her.

“Yeah? Sorry, babe, but I didn’t see your ass being helpful when the shit hit the fan. How about you keep your friggin’ opinions to yourself, huh? Maybe ring us up when you’ve spent a couple years downstairs and watched your entire family burn,” he said, and his hand wasn’t as far from wandering towards his own gun, tucked into his jeans, as he would’ve liked. He took a deep, hopefully calming breath which had absolutely no effect on his mood or sudden pounding headache and shouldered his way past Bobby and into the house.

Sam blinked after him, shot Bobby a helpless look and followed. He managed to snag Dean's arm before he could reach the safety of the stairs.

Dean sighed; so close.

"The hell, Dean? Didn't you tell me once that getting our hands on an angel's vessel is pretty much like getting a shortcut call straight up the line? That's what you and Cas tried to do with Raphael. Right?"

"So? I don't see any reason to go Spanish inquisition on the only ally Cas has upstairs, even if he is an annoying dick. And you know what? I don't care if she's stuck down here or what. She's a witch, Sammy. I freaking hate witches. Personally I'd just throw her in the panic room and call it job well done," Dean hissed, trying vaguely to shake his brother's enormous hand.

"You're not even curious as to why Azrael kicked himself out of his vessel?" Sam insisted before releasing him.

"Jesus, alright. For all we know Azrael does this every weekend or something. I don't see why this is important." He followed glumly as his brother headed back outside, shoving his duffel bag against the couch as he went. "Freakin' rubs me the wrong way, too. Witches," he sulked under his breath as he rejoined the group on the porch again. He stood there awkwardly, stiff and on his guard, and glared at the girl. Witches had always given him the creeps; they were the only thing he and Sam hunted which was actually human. They had no excuse at all for going on the rampage or being stupid enough to summon shit up from downstairs; Dean had little pity for them, in general. Plus, he'd been blind-sided enough times to want to stay as far away from them as possible.

It was Sammy who actually managed to play nice, of course, because Dean just couldn't. "Okay, so, maybe we can start again, here? You know us and we know what you are. Why don't you tell us why you're here?"

Half way through Dean’s little tirade at her, Bobby shot Dean a ‘shut up you idjit’ look. The vessel herself simply finished her cigarette, looking perfectly calm. She even field stripped the butt first. She inspected her nails for moment, apparently bored. Until Dean and Sam came back out onto the porch.

She licked her lips and spat off the porch. Bobby had gone tense; he seemed to be expecting what came next. A barked word and quick spin sent Sam and Bobby tumbling away, putting her in front of Dean and let her go for the typical witch M.O which was an outstretched hand curled into something claw like the seemed to be the normal precursor for inside melting pain in the victim.

“Call you back in a few years when I’ve watched my family burn? When I’ve done a few years in hell?” She spat furiously. “Climb off your cross princess, I have watched my family burn. You want to know why? Because they were hunters, and they ran into a nest of vampires that killed them.”

“And they didn’t just kill the adults that went after them; they tracked my family back to home base and killed my little brother who was eight, and my nieces who were four. They then hung all their corpses around the compound.” She tilted her head to the side. “So you know what I did when I found out? I went to the nearest crossroads and made myself a little deal. My soul for ten years of witch powers with more than the normal kick to them. Then I tracked those blood sucking sons of bitches down and melted their insides, then I killed them. Tell me how does it feel?” She snorted. “Guess when my contract expired?”

“Six months ago,” Castiel said, frowning. “Let them go, your anger is understandable but I cannot abide you harming any of them.”

“If I don’t will you kill me? Or are you too scared of your big brother?” she asked, smirking. “Fine, I’ll let them go. But if the short one talks to me like that again I’m going to melt his eyes out of his skull. And that’s just to start with.”

In retrospect, Dean figured he should've seen it coming; as it was, as soon as they stepped foot on the porch again, the girl stood up and flung a hand outward. Dean had just enough time to watch Bobby and Sam go flying back a couple feet before she rounded on him. If he could've reached for his gun, he would have; Sammy was lying on his side and, from the porch, Dean couldn't tell if his brother was okay. 

The little bitch didn't even give him time to breathe. Pain bloomed hot and vivid in his gut and throat and he doubled over, struggling for breath as the girl stepped closer to pretty much spit her life's story in his face. Something like a bubbling, choked sob escaped him then, and up with it blood welled between his lips. And then he was laughing, a thin, raspy sound nearly forced out of him by the stupidity of all this; they'd faced off too many creatures to count over the years, and every time, it was the humans who surprised him with how quick to strike back they were, given half a chance.

He supposed he wasn't much better; the only words he wanted to say were 'Bite me, bitch'. It probably wouldn't have been wise.

When he managed to find his breath, barely, to speak, Sammy interrupted him with a grunt, struggling to get up. "Jesus, Dean, just let it go."

"Fine," he forced through gritted teeth. "Fine, okay?" But he was counting the strikes in his head; she'd struck first, and given half a chance he would damn well strike back, hunter or vessel or juiced-up witch notwithstanding.

Castiel stared her down and eventually she dropped her hand and wiped her palms off on her pants. Bobby grunted and hauled himself to his feet. “Well I was going to tell you idjits to play nice, but I see that won’t happen,” the older hunter said, glowering at them all. “The least you can do is introduce yourself. I know you have better manners than that girl.”

She snorted. “Fine, I’m Abrianna Conway. Most people call me Bri,” Bri said, reaching into her shirt and pulling out another cigarette. “You asked why I was here and why Azrael is so clearly absent, right? Short answer is I don’t know. Long answer? The fuckin’ archangel ditched out of my meat suit like it was last year’s style.”

Castiel made his way over to Dean and touched his shoulder to heal whatever damage Bri had caused to him. “Do you remember anything about what Azrael has been doing?” he asked, unwilling to pass up the chance.

“Um… no. Not at all. I remember that he’s been super pissed, and that I like to hide in the corner of my mind that’s still mine when he’s riding around in me, but other than that I don’t know shit.” She shrugged and lit her cigarette.

Dean's breathing returned when the girl dropped her hand, like a massive weight was suddenly wrenched off his chest. He took in one long, gasping breath, the sound ragged and broken in his ears, and spat a gob of something disgusting and wet and red straight onto Bobby's porch as he slowly got to his feet.

Sam, likewise, seemed otherwise unhurt, and was at his side in an instant. He shrugged off his brother's hand with a self-conscious cough. "M'fine."

"Right. Making new friends again," Sammy answered, shuffling back a few steps.

"Oh shut up, Sammy. S'it my fault she's touchy as hell?" he whispered back. 

Sam only shrugged, the movement suggesting a myriad of things. He was pretty sure his brother would have reacted the same way, in any case, but he still vowed to keep his distance and not let the girl--Abrianna, as it turned out--out of his sight for a single second.

"Shouldn't we be expecting hellhounds to start clawing at the doors soon?" Dean asked, a bit breathless, into the silence, when it became clear that no more information was forthcoming. Sure, the girl might say she didn't remember anything, but Dean was pretty much convinced that hell wouldn't care either way; a vessel being dragged downstairs would probably be worth the equivalent of its weight in gold. Or souls, really. 

For a minute he felt almost bad for the girl.

“If they can find me.” Bri reached into her shirt and pulled out a charm on a necklace. “I whipped up this little charm to hide my size four ass from them before Azrael turned up wanting to use my skin as a suit. That and I’m pretty sure Azrael will be back, eventually.” She shrugged and took a long drag from her cigarette.

“Chances are he will be,” Castiel said with a frown. Eyeing Bri critically, she was lying and he knew it. But it was hard to tell exactly what she knew. Her memories of Azrael’s occupation of her were… chaotic and jumbled. There was no real sense of time or order to them.

“I do remember this though. He was pissed about some demons or fallen angels going after a bunch of rocks?” She looked confused. “I’m not sure why an archangel would care about that sort of thing but that’s what I remember last before he dumped my ass here.” 

"'Course you have a way to keep hellhounds off your trail," Dean muttered under his breath. He got a sharp, bony elbow in the ribs from Sam for his trouble and rolled his eyes. He couldn't remember much from his time trying to outrun the inevitable canine teeth of his freaking crossroads deal; there had been a lot happening, and most of his time had been spent trying not to panic and coming to terms with leaving Sammy behind to fend for himself.

It felt like years and years ago now, after all they'd been through since then. Still, it stung that some trigger-happy witch had managed to find a way to keep her ass free of hellhound teethmarks for so long while they'd never even figured out a way to really hurt the sons of bitches.

Sammy seemed more concerned with the conversation at hand now, but talk of stones brought Dean's mind sharply to the present. "A bunch of rocks? Why would Azrael even know about the stones? Most of our info..." Came from Gabriel, of course. Gabriel who had supplied the 'map' to the stones. Gabriel who was also an archangel, and, as such, obviously hiding an agenda, in Dean's book.

"Cas," he finally said, turning towards the angel. If it rankled him that they couldn't even trust angels anymore, the surprise certainly didn't register on Dean's face. "I thought getting these stones was just a precaution, but... What the hell is going on?"

"It was the spell that made the cage, Dean," Sammy breathed at his side.

Dean frowned. "What's in these crystals, then? We already know that if somebody breaks one, the whole thing friggin' shatters. Is there really someone up there who's just dying for another celestial pissing contest?" He hesitated. "Michael is still stuck in the pit, right?"

“Michael is still in the cage with Lucifer, yes,” Castiel said with a frown. “And getting them is meant to keep others from doing the same and destroying them. No one in heaven, other than Raphael and his followers, wants to let Lucifer and Michael loose. In fact, many of those against it would be killed if Michael got loose. Myself included.”

“The stones themselves… They were made when the archangels and their vessels that performed the spell died at the completion of the spell. From what I understand, their very being and the energy they gave was crystallized and that is what made the key stones.” He frowned and tried to explain. It was hard to try and explain what had ultimately been a death ritual that had consumed the lives of six archangels and seven humans. He remembered watching it happen and strangely wishing that he could have been the one of those to sacrifice themselves. “That’s why they suck the ambient energy from anything that isn’t human that touches them. That energy goes to feed the cage.” 

“Azrael knows about the stones because all of the archangels know about them. It makes sense that he would be furious about them being collected. If Crowley and his demons have found out about them, or the fallen have and are attempting to find on their own to destroy them… we should hurry and attempt to get them all quickly.” The angel shot Dean a worried look. “The destruction of one stone would not cause the cage to fail but it would be catastrophic.”

Dean sighed, watching Cas explain. It was almost cathartic now, an easy, droning sense of security in the face of everything else; they had a freaking angel of the Lord on their side now, or at least Dean felt like he did. It made facing all this bullshit almost bearable. Somewhere deep down he knew it had little to do with the fact that an angel was helping them, and a lot more to do with how Cas seemed to be on board. He ignored the feeling.

Though clearly something must've shown in his expression, or he may have zoned out a bit listening to the quiet rumble of Castiel's voice, because Sammy raised an eyebrow at him and shot him this 'Dude, are you for real' look. Dean's eyebrows knotted together.

"Okay, yeah, peachy. We've got a whole army of untrustworthy archangels in on this stone deal now. Anybody else exhausted? Cause I just almost got my lungs pulled out of me, so if you don't mind..." He managed a hugely exaggerated shrug and turned towards the door. "I'm gonna be inside, hacking up a storm. You guys keep me posted on all this crap. Lemme know once we've got someone to gank for all our troubles."

And with that he was gone, crossing back inside while Sam stared at his back. He made his way upstairs with an irritated sigh; God, how many times would they have to deal with heaven's bullshit? Cas was okay, he really was, but Dean was starting to develop a racist complex when it came to the rest of his feathery family.

There were all of them secretive sons of bitches, for one; trying to divine their intent was about as likely to be successful, he felt, as bobbing for apples in a lake. He couldn't care less. He knew he was being thrown about by fuckin' fate by now. It wasn't any easier to accept than it ever had been, but he'd stopped trying to wish for the destruction of the by-now infamous Winchester curse months ago. 

Now, he only wanted the easy things, while he could have them; the solid door at his back as he shut himself in Bobby's spare room, the warmth of that empty bed and silence. If there'd been pie and booze, it would've been a plus.


	11. Breaking Down, Building Up.

Down on the porch, Sammy managed a very graceless cough and shrugged. "I should, uh, probably check on him," he said, shooting Castiel a look that clearly stated that he didn't want to run upstairs, and would in fact pay not to have to. A few weeks ago that look would've been directed at Bobby.

Castiel tilted his head to the side. “I think perhaps it would be easier if I spoke to him. My brothers are causing all this discomfort for him,” he said with a sigh, and shrugged before taking himself upstairs with a rush of air.

“Dean,” he called out. “I must apologize about throwing more of this stress at you.” He started looking down at the floor. There were times when he wished he could give the Winchesters a normal life without all the stress of heaven and hell weighing on them.

Bri tilted her head at the spot where Castiel had stood. “Are they like…fucking?” she asked sounding a bit amused and mortified. 

“Odds are if they haven’t yet, they will be soon,” Bobby said before he headed into the house. “If you’re going to smoke I don’t want it in my house.”

“Noted. I’ll stay on the porch, then.”

"Jesus God, please never ever mention that out loud in my presence again," Sam griped as he watched Bobby head back inside. He hesitated for only a second--second-hand smoke and possible awkward discussion about his brother's sex life against Bobby's gruff, calming and, above all, safely PG-13 presence--and swiftly pivoted and followed the old hunter inside.

Upstairs, Dean had only just settled back against the bed when he heard the distinct shuffle-thump of unseen wings, as expected and welcome as it had ever been. He managed a slight, vaguely-faked cheerful shrug. "Not your fault, Cas. Your family is made of dick."

He raked a hand through his hair and fixed the angel with a thin smile. "I didn't really believe Sammy, you know," he muttered, half aware of his own voice. "But for a while, there, I think the american dream, God, it's cliché and awful, the white picket fence, the two point five kids, the cars and the garage… The dog in the yard. All of that... I thought I could have that."

The laugh that bubbled out of him couldn't have sounded any less like his own voice, and he was breaking down, he knew, clutching at something that had never existed, some vague hope that, once Lucifer was buried and gone, once the yellow-eyed demon was dust, once he'd found his father again, everything would just stop.

It had never stopped. And he was still here, but the edges were blurring; there was Dean, strong and there and alive, for Sam. And then there was Dean, destroyed and broken and wishing for pardon, for absolution, for something else. And then, yet more, there was Castiel, making a mess of both until Dean could hardly breathe, could hardly recognize himself. "I still don't know why me, man," he said in a small voice, staring at his hands. 

It made no sense, and it made even less sense now, when faced with more heavenly bullshit that he didn't know how to handle except by charging stupidly forward. "I mean... Give me something to swing, and I'll swing it. Sammy's always been the bright one, the clever one. Dude, you... You pulled the wrong brother out of hell."

“I wish I could change everything, go back and stop Azazel so you and Sam could both have that picturesque life that you both deserve,” Castiel said. “But it is impossible for that to happen; the past is fluid but not that fluid.” He moved closer to Dean.

“You are asked to bear too much, over and over the armies of heaven and hell keep catching you between them.” He reached out to lay his hands on Dean’s shoulders. “But I didn’t pull the wrong brother out of hell, Dean.”

“You belittle yourself, you are just as intelligent and clever as your brother.” He knew that Dean wasn’t big on touching but this was one of those moments he knew that it was required. Some instinct told him that much. “You deserved to be saved. No soul as bright as yours deserves to be in hell.”

“You have always been the best hope, you and your brother. Not the only hope, but the best one,” he added, sighing and letting go of Dean’s arms. “If you really wanted, it would be possible for me to whitewash your memories of all this. Yours, Sam’s, Bobby’s, all of them. You’d only remember the normal hunts you’ve been on since you came back from hell. You wouldn’t remember me, or anything about this war you’ve been dragged into.” Selfishly, he hoped Dean wouldn’t go for the option; on the other hand he wanted to ease Dean’s suffering.

"Yeah well, that yellow-eyed fucker wasn't your fault, Cas," Dean hissed, hiding a faint twitch as Castiel's hands closed over his shoulders. There was something there, like a ghostly memory of himself comforting Sam, on those nights when John had disappeared and there was nothing outside some unnamed motel room door but darkness.

It would have been so easy to fall, so easy to break down and crash there, in the inviting, freely-given warmth. But something within him rebelled--angels, fucking all of them, playing him since the first--and something else freaking stood up and raged--get the fuck off your high horses, you feathery bastards, because people are dying down here--and before he knew it he was standing, slapping Castiel's hands away with a choked-off grunt that wasn't in any way a sob.

"Forget? You bastard, you offer me forgetting now?" He was livid, striding forward on a cloud of rage that was half Azrael's vessel's fault--Brianna, right now he was having trouble remembering his own name--and half brought on by Castiel's suggestion. "You fucker! I prayed for you. I screamed. I fucking howled my voice raw for you." 

He advanced on the angel like a man possessed, and something about this vaguely registered as déjà vu with the tables turned. "You never came, you son of a bitch! I asked and I fucking pleaded and Sammy had no soul and all I ever got was fucking cold silence. And now you'd offer me the coward's way out? Well, fuck that!"

He was crowding Castiel now, probably close to having his teeth knocked out of his face, again, but he didn't care. Both hands fisted themselves firmly in the linen material of that goddamned trench coat and pushed, shoving backwards until he could feel Cas nearly rebound off the wall at his back. "I held on, God dammit. I fucking held on as long as I could, but there was nobody there! Go on," he hissed, pressing until he could feel heat. "Go on, do your heavenly judging act. Look down your lofty nose at me, fucking laugh at the poor, misguided monkey. I don't give a shit anymore. I gave it all I had and it wasn't enough!"

Castiel watched as Dean advanced on him stoically. He grabbed Dean’s wrists and spun them around so he was pressing Dean into the wall. “I heard you, Dean. Every word. I couldn’t come. There was nothing I could do for you and it hurt too much to have to tell you that,” he said, frowning at Dean.

“Do you understand how much I envy you, Dean?” he asked, staring into Dean’s eyes. “I don’t judge you, or any human. You are perfectly imperfect, a wonder of contrasts; the Creator of the infinite universe with finite man. To know with certainty, that I had failed you because I couldn’t save Sam, I couldn’t face you.”

“If you want judgment you won’t get it from me.” He pressed closer to Dean and let go of his wrists to cup his face in his hands. “Envy, pity, and the desire understand you, yes. But I cannot judge you. I’m sorry I failed you, I’m sorry I’ve asked so much of you time and time again. I would give everything I am to be able fix this for you.”

“You bear this burden that shouldn’t be yours, but I wish you would let someone help hold you up. You give your everything to the world and take nothing for yourself, Dean. That is why you deserve to be saved. Let me help you, if you stubbornly will not give up, let me help bear your burden. I failed you by asking too much of you, Dean. So let me help in whatever way I can.” He didn’t know how to articulate all of what he wanted to say. He knew he wanted to hold Dean, or shake him, or both. 

Bile and anger surged back as Castiel grabbed Dean's wrists and forced him back; he fought back with equal parts rancid, misguided hurt and rage, pushing against the angel's grip. It did exactly nothing except leave him breathless and weak, leaning back against the cheap, thin wall of Bobby's spare room as Castiel shuffled closer.

There was a wild, angry look in the angel's eyes now, something like betrayal and hurt flashing there briefly before Dean had to force himself to look away. By the time hands rose to cup his face he was shaking, and the dam broke--it should've made a sound like a building falling down, or the end of the world, for real this time, for all that he felt himself dissolve behind it--when Castiel's voice hitched on his own words.

"I don't... I didn't... Fuck, Cas, I never asked for this," he managed, and though he knew he sounded like a whiny little bitch he couldn't stop himself. This time the warmth was too much, familiar and, yes, given, so much given even through the silence, that he couldn't stop himself from reaching for it. Both hands anchored themselves somewhere in Castiel's many layers of prim suit and coat, and Dean sagged against the wall.

"Almost... lost Sammy. Lost Bobby," he gasped, and if he was struggling for breath and fighting back stupid, ridiculous tears, well, at least Cas would probably never tell. And yes, Castiel had been there before, and was here now, and that thought was almost worse than all the others. "Fucking... everyone, God. Even you, twice. I'm fucked up, Cas. I really am," he managed, fingers still clutching at thin linen. 

"I thought I could do the whole family thing, and then I couldn't, not where it counted, and I can barely hunt without getting pissed at anything bigger than a ghost." And you're still here, he thought, you with your stupid, wide blue eyes and without the tie of blood to hold you here. Cas had stuck by him; Cas was the one upstairs with him now, whereas before there would only have been Sam.

And Sam was his kid brother; Sam couldn't see him break down like this, because Dean would never let himself fall apart so damned completely. But Castiel could handle it, was somehow so much stronger than either of them, even when he was weak and stupid. So Dean relaxed, stopped fighting Castiel's iron grip and simply sagged. When he did, something like a weight lifted, heavy and dark and oppressive, and he found himself gasping up at the cracked ceiling of Bobby's place, struggling to catch his breath as tears inexplicably found their way past his grasp. 

It was awkward, and uncomfortable, and way beyond anything he'd usually allow himself, but for the moment he was warm, and, yes, still ridiculously pinned to a wall, but the control had been firmly wrenched out from under his feet just now and he rolled with it, trusting himself into Castiel's care for the moment.

"Don't... Just, never suggest that again, okay? I don't want to forget. I regret a lot of things, but I don't want to forget. I just want... to know I'm not doing all of this for nothing. Because the freakin' end of the world keeps coming back, Cas, and I don't know how long I can play this part y'all want me to play," he finally acknowledged, leaning forwards until his forehead rested numbly on Castiel's shoulder, the damned tan trench coat feeling both soft and stupidly welcoming even after everything Dean knew it had somehow survived.

For a moment Castiel wasn’t sure what to do, Dean was leaning against him and he didn’t know what to do. Then it occurred to him that this was a moment to hold Dean protectively and in a way that would only cause some sort of mockery any other time. “You were doing very well at the family thing, Dean,” he said softly. “I… may have checked in on you once or twice to ensure you were okay. From what I saw, you were doing well.”

When Dean leaned against him and rested his on his shoulder, Castiel carefully wrapped his arms around Dean. It wasn’t a tight grip or anything more than a lose circle of his arms around the man, easily broken. “I promise I won’t suggest that again, and I also promise after this, this will be the last time you’re asked to bear so much. I swear to you it will be.” If he had to, he would battle Metatron himself to keep Dean and Sam out of the battles after this.

Still holding on to Dean he backed them both carefully away from the wall. He unfurled his wings with a soft rasp of feathers on feathers and wrapped them around Dean as well. “I have faith in you, Dean. I know you can bear this weight that’s been laid on you, and if it becomes too heavy I will help you bear it.”

"Jesus," Dean mumbled, the sound strained and thin and close to a sharp, panicky laugh. The thought that Cas had been there, lurking like his usual unsubtle self, while he made a freaking mess of things with Lisa wasn't a comfortable one. There'd been a few massive spats after she realized that Dean was sort of numb to everything; he hadn't even been able to muster up the energy to actually fight back with her, had simply let her vent and had later hoped that sex would patch things over.

It hadn't. He didn't say that Cas should've showed his face back then, because Dean knew himself enough to recognize he probably wouldn't have reacted well. Not with Ben and Lisa so close. 

Castiel's hands tugged at him, an easy, loose pull which he happily followed, eyes a bit unfocused. As they walked he felt and heard the rustling softness of feathers around them both and released a relieved, shaky laugh.

"I don't want anyone else to get all caught up in this shit, Cas. Least of all you," he breathed, not surprised to hear the ridiculous amount of fondness in his voice. "I... started this, and I'll friggin' finish it, I swear I will." He just wasn't sure he'd have much of a self to return to, after everything was done; he'd fucked up on the picket fence life before. Another round trip of heaven and hell and he knew there'd be nothing left of him that could function normally. Sammy, for some reason, was stronger; maybe because the kid had always felt a bit like a freak.

And right now, with those stupidly real wings at his back and Castiel's warmth against him, he could admit, at least to himself, that he was nearing the end of his rope. He carefully sidestepped the issue of faith, of Castiel's belief that he'd choose right, that he'd pull through. "You know what? When all of this bullshit's finally boiled over," he mumbled against a clothed shoulder, voice a bit derisive, "I think I'm taking a sabbatical. And there's gonna be freakin' fishing, and beer, and I think I might pick up the guitar again. Yeah. And if I see an archangel around, I'm tearing 'em a new one and swinging that guitar right up where the sun don't shine."

Then he did laugh, because he was a bit screwed, because the warmth was too good and too easy and he had to believe it wasn't being offered just to keep him alive long enough to finish this. His fingers were still buried in Castiel's ridiculous three piece suit, the fabric rumpled and just a tad on the side of cheap, not the sort of thing anyone would expect to still be in one piece by now. And it was hilarious, and a bit sad, how familiar and needed this all was.

So he wasn't at all surprised to find himself nodding hazily and adding, "Angels in trench coats with freakin' huge blue eyes'll be allowed to join me for the fishing, though."

Castiel didn’t waste his time apologizing for not getting to Dean’s soul in time. He’d already done that and reminding Dean that he’d started things off with him by failing wasn’t going to help either of them. “You should know by now, Dean. There’s not much you can do to stop me from putting myself in the middle of all this right next you if that’s where I want to be,” he said gently.

“When this is over, I can take you to some of the best fishing locations in the world if you want me to,” he offered and found himself smiling slightly at the thought. He’d watched mankind fish since the beginning; it had always intrigued him. “It would be interesting to learn how to fish,” he mused aloud.

He supposed that it would be appropriate to rub Dean’s back or something but that just seemed awkward when he knew they both didn’t really do hugs or whatever this was. So he kept his arms still if loosely wrapped around Dean’s shoulders. Castiel would gladly hold Dean up for as long as he was needed. This was just proof he was damned, because he wasn’t just doing this to bolster Dean until he could stand on his own again.

He was a fool and if they made it through this latest world-ending struggle, he would be lost. Because it would be expected of him to return to heaven for good, and he wasn’t sure he’d want to. Dean would still be on earth. But even if he was allowed to stay on earth as he was, it would be painful; he would still be an angel and Dean would still be mortal, and he would end up watching Dean grow old and die. He didn’t want to think too hard about that.

Dean managed to force out a weak laugh when Cas seemed to fixate on fishing, glad that he’d actually succeeded in defusing some of the awkwardness there obviously was in finding himself more or less coddled by an angel of the Lord. It was weird, warm, yes, and just way too comfortable to actually be comfortable, and Dean soon found himself stepping back a few paces, until his shoulder blades met the warmth of Castiel’s wings at his back.

He shook his head and smiled, uncertain but pretty freaking determined not to let show just how ruffled he was. “It’ll be awesome, man. But you can bait your own hooks, cause that’s one lesson you only repeat once; otherwise you end up with a little bro like Sammy who goes all girly when he sees worms,” he quipped, trying to ignore the blush he was fairly sure was damned obvious on his face.

“So, uh… Everything okay with Spunky downstairs? I shouldn’t have bolted, shouldn’t have left Sam and Bobby alone with the freak of nature.” As he spoke though, he reached up and fingered Castiel’s tie, pulling it slightly back into place from where it lay crooked at his throat. And he really should be getting back downstairs, should be making sure that the witch wasn’t going on a rampage, that Sammy was okay.

But he didn’t, because messing with Castiel’s tie turned into smoothing his hand down the rumpled shirt and then into sinking fingers slowly a few inches into the waistband of his slacks. Something huge had just happened, something he wasn’t sure he could deal with, even on the best of days. And this wasn’t, not by a long shot, a good day. He could acknowledge what he’d just admitted to—the fatigue, the overwhelming exhaustion, the wish for it all to stop—and what Cas had apparently offered back later, in the privacy of his own thoughts when he could quietly freak out about it.

For the moment, he reacted the only way he knew how, by shooting Castiel a wide smirk and tugging once at his belt. “I’m gonna go for a shower, I think. Door’s wide open,” he breathed, leaning in close to nose against the side of Cas’ jaw. His mouth closed against the warm column of the angel’s throat, briefly, before he continued. “Just leave the tax accountant getup behind if you follow, Cas. Nobody wants a wet accountant.”

He allowed himself another small nibble at the skin under his lips—damn the angel and damn the way he couldn’t now seem to steer clear of him—before pulling away and walking off, letting his fingers play lightly against one outstretched wing as he walked out into the corridor. And damn him also, he thought as he stumbled into the bathroom, because he’d just done as he always did, falling back on the possibility of sex to shut his stupid brain up. It had worked, of course, and he struggled with his jeans, after having discarded his jacket and shirt, because he was already hard.

“I believe she’s still on the porch smoking,” Castiel said with a slight smile. “And that Bobby intends on putting her to work with some warding spells that only a witch can cast. They should help protect this place from unwanted visitors.” He let go of Dean’s shoulders when he stepped away.

He watched Dean toy with his tie and arched a brow when his fingers found their way into the waistband of his pants. Castiel watched Dean disrobe with great interest. The wing Dean had run his fingers over twitched and the angel found himself smiling and following after Dean. He pushed the door firmly closed after them, his hands moving to shed his clothing even as he folded his wings and willed them away.

It would be interesting to learn just how much Dean thought he listened. Because Castiel listened to everything Dean said even when it didn’t make sense. “You always talk a lot but never seem to say what you mean, Dean,” he said with amusement as he bent down to pluck at the laces of his shoes. 

“Yeah? Good, then. Fucking witch can pull her own weight around a bit; it’ll certainly be different than what we usually get from her kind,” Dean shot back, turning around as he forced his jeans down past his hips only to find Castiel had actually decided to take him up on his thinly-veiled invitation and had followed into the bathroom with him. Happily, the door was already closed, so Dean wriggled out of his jeans and sat himself down on the edge of the tub to work at getting his boots off.

Only Cas did pretty much the same, minus the sitting on the tub, and he found himself staring at the top of the angel’s head as he bent to—excruciatingly slowly—unlace his slightly scuffed dress shoes. Dean swallowed, fought against the rising mental image of just what he could do with Cas bending in front of him like this and cleared his throat.

“I always say exactly what I mean, Cas,” he shot back with a subtle frown, watching the movements of Castiel’s hands and straightening up. “Stay out of my damned head. I mean, really. Thoughts are…” Debauched, he mentally finished, eyes travelling up the angel’s form until he could stare at the ridge of his brow and nose. His thoughts were debauched, at least, because right now he could only think that he would need to move one thigh just a few inches and reach out and pull, and he could possibly have Castiel’s face buried in his lap.

The rest of the image his brain provided was just too good to actually ignore, and he almost felt soft hair against his fingertips as he imagined pulling Castiel closer, and imagined those lips—God, someone upstairs was playing a cruel joke, to give a freaking angel a pair of perfectly fuckable lips—wrapping around his dick. He chuckled around a strangled groan, finally toeing his boots free and getting rid of his jeans as he kicked them out of his way.

“Thoughts are private, mostly,” he finished before finally giving in and tugging lightly at Castiel’s tie to bring Cas’ attention away from those cursed shoes and back towards him. Dean grinned, slipped his fingers into the knot at the base of Castiel’s throat and pulled, the silk slipping through his hand as he pulled the tie off. 

He was already a bit breathless—though he made a rather admirable effort not to pant—and flushed, his cock jutting swollen and heavy between his thighs as he leaned back. “Though I’ve got half a mind to share what I’m thinking of right now, Cas. Need a hand with those?” he added as he nodded at the shoes, lips still quirked upwards in a small smile.

“It’s not as easy as you think to ignore your thoughts, Dean,” Castiel murmured, having succeeded in undoing the tight knots in his laces. He was distracted then by Dean’s thoughts, they where sinful and dirty and most decidedly private. He couldn’t help the blush that colored his cheeks at those thoughts. He stared into Dean’s eyes, unable to get the image Dean’s mind had supplied him out of his own mind; the very thought of having Dean’s member hard and hot against his tongue made him twitch.

“Especially when you all but shout such things at me with your thoughts,” he half growled, mimicking Dean’s movements and toeing his shoes off. He ignored his pants, though it wasn’t hard to see he was aroused as well. “I do not dig around in your mind like I could if I wished, but sometimes when you’re close, or you’re thinking about something hard I can’t help but hear them.” 

He licked his lips and stepped closer to Dean, reaching out to trail his fingers along Dean’s jaw. “You say many things, Dean. But you rarely mean what you say or say what you think.” He bent down to bring his face closer to Dean’s. “And I think you know very well that I can see exactly what you are thinking right now.”

A low chuckle escaped Dean as Castiel stood; he’d guessed some time ago that he could probably project a bit, if the angel was even halfway listening. It was crazy and completely weird, but no more than sitting down of an afternoon for a bit of prayer, hoping that an angel would flitter down with a scowl on his face and a rumpled trench coat. Dean’s life was made of crazy, so sending short mental porn clips at an angel hardly seemed all that far-fetched. 

Besides, this was definitely one of the perks of crazy, if the way Castiel’s voice suddenly turned raw and gravelly—moreso than it was generally, anyway, and as usual it sent a thrilling chill down Dean’s spine—was any indication. Knowing that Cas had figured out he’d been evading and vague about the way they’d ended up meshed together just a few minutes ago made him nervous though, so he fisted a hand loosely in the angel’s shirt and pulled him down—or pulled himself up, the difference at this point was negligible—to crush their lips together briefly.

He didn’t even give himself time to breathe, just attacked Castiel’s mouth with lips and tongue until he had to lean back or risk asphyxiation. “Yeah, I think we’ve established that you can see just fine,” he laughed, though his voice was strained. Suddenly there seemed to be way too many clothes between him and Castiel’s naked skin, so he quickly reached further up and started working on getting that dress shirt unbuttoned. 

He had to fight to not let this turn into a repeat of the motel when he’d pretty much just ploughed right past foreplay and straight into Cas, because, dammit, Dean Winchester was better in bed than a furious, hasty tumble and no inexperienced angel was going to debunk that particular myth. At least, not twice in a row. So he let his hands wander down slowly, over shoulders and collarbones and chest, then back up until he could slip the shirt down Castiel’s arms. 

“So what am I thinking now, then, feathers?” he asked, still grinning despite how shaky and fucking worked up he felt; the evidence of that was pretty difficult to ignore, because if he’d been hard before he was now aching. Castiel’s belt was the next casualty, sliding slowly out of the loops in his trousers as Dean pulled at it. And those trousers were furiously tented, which made the mental image he firmly fixated his mind on all the easier to imagine; Dean hadn’t often gone down on dick before—just like he didn’t often go for too-intimate kissing—but it was now excruciatingly easy to imagine how Cas would feel on his tongue, to think of lapping and licking at flesh that nobody except him had ever touched before.

Cas would be warm and soft between his lips, Dean decided as he slowly worked the angel’s slacks open, and he would probably twitch and moan that breathy rasp that Dean had heard before. He was definitely still smiling when he looked back up at Castiel, dragging the black linen of his pants down over pale, slim hips.

Castiel groaned lowly and had to fight to keep himself from following Dean lips. “What you are thinking now?” he asked a bit blankly. Oh, he knew exactly what the man was thinking. “What sinful and immoral things you’re thinking, Dean,” he said, stepping out of his pants.

He leaned down and caught Dean’s lips in a hungry kiss. “You’re thinking about how you’d like swallow me down and if I would twitch and moan if you did,” he murmured against Dean’s lips. “None of those things however have anything to do with a shower.”

Licking Dean’s lower lip and smirking slightly, Castiel stepped back and reached down to pull Dean to his feet and with a twist of his power he turned the water in the tub on. “And before this you were thinking about how much you wanted me to do the same to you. Something about my lips.” He tilted his head to the side and licked his lips again.

Dean’s breath hitched the second Castiel leaned closer and dived right back in for another hurried meeting of lips. It was way too brief—and there was way too little skin under his fingers, even if Dean pawed and clutched at every available inch of Cas he could reach—and when the angel leaned back he was wholly unprepared for the swift pull upwards.

He stumbled a step or two, nearly crashing into Castiel as, somehow, the water started running in the shower next to them. He watched, mesmerized and panting, as the angel totally pulled a fast one on him and tilted his head—birdlike, little more than a twitch, and there was just no way Cas could know just what that little muscle spasm did to him—before pointedly running his tongue over his lips.

“Oh, you kinky fucker,” he exclaimed, stepping forward and pressing hard against the angel, pressing against him and pushing until it was either step into the tub or fall spectacularly to the floor. He was drenched within seconds but it hardly mattered, because there was suddenly skin sliding against him, his cock slotting gloriously against the warm softness of the angel’s hip. Nothing much aside from this mattered, really, and Sammy could’ve burst in wearing a cheerleader’s uniform and he hardly would’ve noticed.

“You been watching porn on the late night TV again, Cas, or is it just that you really want this?” he asked around a groan, wrestling his hands away from where they’d instinctively wrapped around Castiel’s hips to grab both of the angel’s wrists in an iron grip that would probably have left bruises, if Cas had been human. As it was, the knowledge that anything he could do to the angel right now would be entirely willed so was enough to make him shiver.

“‘Cause I can tell you, I sure as hell want this.” He lowered his mouth to Castiel’s chest, followed the sluicing water down a few inches and bit lightly at one tantalizingly exposed nipple before letting himself fall to his knees, still stubbornly holding on to the angel’s wrists. The shock of the hard enamel as he knelt was jarring but he had exactly three brain cells left to spare it any notice. There was a very hard cock in front of his face, and if this hadn’t exactly always been Dean’s cup of tea, every rule in the book went flying out the window just then because this was Cas, and he’d freaking do anything to wipe that smug look off the angel’s face. 

“And you ain’t fucking allowed to use words like ‘swallow down’ and ‘moan’ again,” he muttered, lowering his face to mouth a swift if messy path up from the root of Castiel’s cock before wrapping his lips around him and sucking. His fingers flexed around the angel’s wrists, once, and he kept his eyes locked upwards on Castiel’s face as he tongued the head of his cock, lapping up every hint of a taste of him before closing his eyes and forcing his lips down around him as low as they could go.

Castiel had gotten used to letting Dean push and pull him where he liked. He adjusted the temperature of the water with a thought and shivered as Dean pressed against him. “I have not watched any more pornography,” he mumbled, wriggling his fingers as Dean gripped his wrists. 

“But I do want this, Dean. I wouldn’t be here if I did not,” he said and watched in surprise as Dean bent his head and bit lightly at one of his nipples then sank lower. He couldn’t have moved or made a noise if he had wanted to. Dean’s thoughts about ‘cock sucking lips’ reverberated in his mind and he gasped as Dean’s tongue moved over the sensitive head of his dick.

When Dean took him into his mouth he made a choked sound and struggled to keep control of his grace and not to lose himself in the sinful heat of Dean’s mouth. He stared down into Dean’s eyes and tried to gather his wits and keep himself from unraveling. He didn’t want this to end so quickly, even if he would only need a few breaths to be ready to go again.

The sound that wanted to bubbled up from Dean's throat was halfway between a chuckle and a groan; he couldn't let it fly, though, because his mouth was currently very otherwise occupied, and thank fuck for that. He wasn't sure if he'd been wondering or daydreaming about exactly this before, but it sure as hell felt like a long time overdue. He bobbed his head a few times, stopping just shy of gagging because, dammit, he could pull off enthusiasm but he couldn't claim to be a pro at this, and valiantly resisted the urge to touch for a few more moments before finally releasing Castiel's wrists.

And yeah, fuck the illusion of control, because now he could explore, which he did, running his tongue lazily over the hot warmth of flesh in his mouth while he let his hands just wander. One teased its way up Castiel's chest and pushed, lightly, testing the firm reality of him. It was harder, right now, to think of Cas as anything other than human, with the weight and taste of him strong on his tongue.

Dean bit back another raw burst of laughter at the thought that the wings had actually made sense, had fitted around Cas perfectly. This was almost as good though, because it was easier to just forget, right now, about all the rest of it. 

He rested one hand on Castiel's hip and dragged the other one down, drawing back and giving his cock a few firm pulls while he caught his breath. "Tell me what you want, then, Cas," he heard himself say, though it sounded nothing like him; his voice was harsh and ragged--Goddamn, he was so out of practice with this--and his jaw was aching. But Christ, he couldn't have stopped even if he'd wanted to. "All of it. Tell me what you want me to do to you."

And then, because Dean wasn't known for his patience at the best of times and shit, if he didn't hurry this up he was pretty damned sure he'd explode in the next few minutes, he lowered his mouth around Castiel's cock again, sliding his hand down to cup over his balls and sneak his fingers behind them, pressing at the soft, fuzzy skin there. This time he totally lost his fight to keep quiet, moaning throatily around Castiel's flesh and inching his fingers further, just an inch upwards until he could rub the pads of them over the tight rim of Castiel's entrance.

One way ticket to hell, again, he thought hazily as he pressed two wet fingers into him. And Dean didn't care, had to wrestle his other hand away from the angel's hip and hurriedly grab the base of his own cock in a death grip to keep himself from coming at the absurd heat of Cas, twitching around his fingers.

“What I want?” Castiel gasped, still staring down at Dean, slack jawed and in awe. “I want… I want… you Dean. Everything you can give me.” He shuddered as Dean’s fingers played over his balls and teased the skin behind them. There was no way he could have stopped the low needy sound he made when Dean pressed two fingers into him

It was tight and probably should have hurt but all he could think of was sudden sensory overload; from the warm water of the shower beating down on him to Dean’s mouth and hands. He didn’t have the words for the things he wanted to do to Dean, or the things he wanted Dean to do him. He could have found them if only he’d wanted to think beyond the moment.

But that wasn’t something he was ready to do when he had Dean’s lips wrapped around him. He would have liked more time to enjoy Dean’s lips around his member but it seemed his vessel had other ideas. “Dean, I-" he managed to choke out before he was shattering into that sinful mouth with a choked sound and what was swiftly becoming embarrassingly normal for this, the slight slip of control over his grace causing the lights to dim and flicker around the house.

If Dean had been in any state of mind to fully appreciate the way Cas stumbled around his answer, the way his voice dipped almost alarmingly into a throaty, gasped whine when Dean's fingers sunk into him, he probably would've lost himself right then and there. Castiel was shuddering and twitching against his hand, a sinuous motion that Dean just had to see; he raised his eyes just in time to see the angel's back arch off just a few scant inches from the wall.

And that was all she wrote and all the warning he got; the twitch of Castiel's body--a jerking, awkward movement which Dean was starting to freaking adore--buried him deeper into his mouth and Dean followed him, pressing his hand tight against his ass to keep his fingers buried in him.

He watched, sight blurring a bit because Cas could twitch like a man possessed and Dean's throat wasn't used to the treatment, as the angel tried to speak and failed beautifully, dissolving instead into a sad, strangled little moan that did unspeakable things to Dean's gut. And his own hand was moving now, even as he tried his best to swallow around the pulsing flesh in his mouth.

Warmth hit the back of his throat about the same time as the light fixtures went haywire in the bathroom. Dean released a startled groan, struggled not to choke and made the grievous mistake of keeping his eyes locked on Cas. His hand pumped twice around his own shaft, slick and wet and it was all just too much. He pulled away from Castiel's cock and managed a half-formed curse before his own orgasm hit him like a punch in the gut.

He doubled over briefly, forehead slipping against Castiel's hip before arching back with a relieved groan. When he could halfway breathe again past the knot in his throat, he chuckled and leaned back, nearly collapsing against the side of the tub as he slowly slipped his fingers out of Castiel's body and lowered his hand.

"Freakin' hell, Cas," he panted, struggling to catch his breath. "The whole earthquake-alert flickering light show? Hot as hell, but not exactly subtle."

“I… can’t really help it,” Castiel grunted, staring down at Dean. “It’s exceptionally difficult to concentrate on my grace when you do things like that, Dean.” He shivered and found he was sad that Dean had got himself off rather than allowed him to repay him in kind.

He decided he would make a point to do so in the future though. He was glad the water was still warm; it gave him a reason to linger and run his hands over Dean. “I may not be well versed in human bathing rituals, but I think we may be dirtier than we were when we got into the shower,” he said, holding out a hand to Dean as a silent offer to help him up.

Thinking about facing Sam and Bobby after this when they got downstairs was not pleasant. Though considering he was mesmerized by the water running over Dean’s body, the thought was somewhat easy to ignore. This was quickly going to become a bad habit, this sort of carnal desire for the feel of Dean’s body against his, for that wild climb then swift plummet to and from release. He wanted to learn all the places that would make Dean twitch and moan, gasp and beg. He would make time to learn them, either before this was all over or after.

"Yeah, got that right," Dean muttered from his kneeling position somewhere near the angel's feet. He glanced down at Castiel's hand and grinned, lazy and slow, like it cost him to actually be aware right now and that wasn't all that far from the truth. "Best place for it, though." He got up slowly, grabbing for Castiel's hand but not pulling himself up; instead he used the opportunity to slide his hand up the angel's arm as he unfolded upright, until he was crowding--again, dammit, this was starting to border on ridiculous--Cas and more or less pinning him against the tiled wall.

"D'you think they noticed..." He started, reaching blindly behind him to make a half-assed, lazy grab for the nearest soap bar. It was grey and stank of furiously strong aftershave; he still worked it into a lather between his hands which he then greedily slicked down Castiel's chest. 

"You know what? Fuck 'em. I don't care. Sammy'll laugh his girly-ass laugh and..." He paused, blinked and couldn't come up with an imagined reaction for Bobby; the thought was probably too horrible to contemplate and he figured his brain had just happily called him a dick then rolled over and promptly died of shame. "I'll probably face the spanish inquisition later, but who cares?"

He slapped one hand against the tiled wall and just breathed for a bit, while he could; he was still running on the slow, blissful high of an extraordinary orgasm, and he knew when he came down he'd probably second-guess all of this. But right now the warm water was a damned blessing, and Cas didn't seem inclined to flutter off anytime soon. That was good enough for now, in Dean's book. That, and talk and getting cleaned up had him imagining all sorts of unspeakable things, beginning with hands over wet skin and ending somewhere with bending Castiel against the tiles and wrenching more electrically-unwise sounds out of him.

His cock made a commendable attempt to twitch back to life at the thought, but Dean was sated and loose-limbed now, pawing like a drunken bear at one of Castiel's hip and barely standing upright. He was also pretty sure he was grinning like a fool, but that couldn't be helped.

"So, first soap, then shampoo, feathers. Shower one-oh-one," he drawled. But really at this point it should go soap, then lounging on the couch until the lead had drained away from his limbs, then a beer. God, that sounded glorious to him, and if there hadn't been a spare archangel witch-vessel walking around downstairs, he might've actually believed this could happen.

“I’m pretty sure Sam is explaining exactly how often he’s noticed the lights flickering when we’re alone together, Dean,” Castiel said, watching as Dean lazily worked soap over his chest. He smiled slightly as Dean clutched at him for balance. “I doubt they will question you with the gusto of the inquisition, considering the amount they will assume and your own infuriating habit of avoiding ‘chick flick’ moments.”

He worked the soap out of Dean’s hand and mimicked Dean’s earlier movement of lathering the soap between his hands then started working it over Dean’s chest. “I will admit to finding the warm water pleasant,” he said, glancing up at the shower head as he moved his soapy hands down Dean’s torso to work the soap into his sides. 

He didn’t even bother to move Dean off him from where he had him pinned to the wall. It was amusing to have Dean pressing him up against something, like he could be held in place that easily. Part of him wanted to see how far Dean would push this whole holding him down thing. Because it could get quite interesting to see how creative Dean got. It’d be a purely scientific exercise though. 

"Clearly you don't know my kid brother half as well as you think you do," Dean mumbled back, stretching lazily under Castiel's hands as the angel--and yeah, this definitely got points towards being the weirdest, most stupidly pleasant thing in years--made a soapy mess of his chest. It was furiously calming, probably like one of those spa moments chicks totally paid small fortunes for, and Dean grinned and shuffled closer, slapping both wet palms on the wall on either side of Castiel's shoulders.

"M'gonna be hearing about this for weeks, mark my words. In fact, I think we should take bets on the first words out of his stupid grinning mouth being 'Really, Dean?' when we appear downstairs," he added, quite content to enjoy the lazy rubbing. It wasn't exactly cuddling, since he was pretty much just hovering against Cas, and there was no weird post-sex kissing going on, so he figured this was safe enough territory.

Though his mental roadmap was probably not equipped to figure out the appropriate amount of distance to achieve after one had just blown an angel in a dingy shower. Probably this sort of thing should be put down into words somewhere and Dean had the utterly absurd idea, for a second, of writing a book about this stuff. He snorted out a graceless laugh and reached for the soap, pulling away from Cas with a wry grin.

"Yeah, water's nice. We should hurry this up, though, cause, one, we'll get pruny..." A pause, as he digested this. "Well, no, I'll get pruny, and Sam will start to rehearse his friggin' speech." He was feeling light-headed, or perhaps light-hearted, he wasn't sure; the previous weirdness in the spare room, when he'd pretty much just broken down, seemed much further away. Certainly easier to deal with, now that he was standing within touching distance of a stark naked Cas in Bobby's admittedly somewhat grubby shower.

Either way, despite his insistence for hurrying this up, he actually had the slowest shower since he couldn't remember when; granted this was mostly because he kept stopping to grab at Cas, pull him close and kiss him until he was gasping for breath, but Dean didn't keep score. 

“You complain as if you wouldn’t do the same thing to him,” Castiel pointed out with the faintest raising of his eyebrows. The angel went along with Dean's insistent attempts to pull him close and kiss until Dean himself was breathless and he was quite ready for another round. He decided to go the easy route and just willed his clothing back into place rather than fighting with it all over again.

By the time they were both as clean as they were going to get, they had probably spent way too long in the shower, though the water was still inexplicably warm. And by the time Dean had extirpated himself from the shower and managed to wrestle into clean clothes, he was feeling pretty damned pleased with himself.

Which was probably why, when he sauntered lazily downstairs, Sam looked up, took one gander at him and rolled his eyes, face scrunching up in a look that said he knew exactly what had just happened. Dean grinned, shouldered past his brother and made a beeline for the fridge, where he dug until he could find a cold beer.

"Don't... even," he said, twisting the cap off and guzzling half of it in one go.

"I didn't say anything. I don't even -need- to," Sammy replied, and if Dean noticed the pout, he only grinned wider.

"I keep telling you, man, it's five p.m. somewhere."

A roll of the eyes and Sam was shrugging. "That's really not what I meant. I swear to God, you're like a child sometimes. A really big, dumb child. Cas is one of our only allies, Dean, and if you--"

"Jesus Christ, Sam. I'm down here for three seconds and this? Really? Just... Not now, okay?"

Sam frowned, but he did shut up, though the stare he sent Dean's way wasn't all that better than the touchy-feely, hormonal crap Dean had been expecting. "Not now? You're saying we can talk later?"

Dean sighed, polished off the beer--good God, if he got drunk in the next thirty seconds it wouldn't even be soon enough--and nodded stiffly. "Yeah, fine, later. You getting friendly with the witch yet?" he asked as he reached for another beer, completely disregarding Sam's disapproving look.

"She's still outside, far as I know," Sam answered, and got a bottle cap straight in the forehead for his trouble. "God, you're a jerk."

"You love it, bitch, stop whining." But Dean was grinning, because, yeah, Sammy was, too, and he could get on board with that.

Castiel had no other choice than to follow Dean downstairs. He watched Dean and Sam banter back and forth with a sort of aloof amusement. He wasn’t going to interfere with whatever discussion they needed to have. It was between them and he really had no right to try and intervene. If it came down to it, he would perhaps try to reassure Sam that Dean wouldn’t be going back to hell.

Bobby stomped out of the living room area. “Boy, you want to clean up the mess your clothing’s making all over my couch?” he groused, scowling at Dean and Cas in turn. “Did you just overturn it looking for socks or something?”

Castiel blinked and looked around. “Did either of you move the keystone away from here?” he asked, frowning. He couldn’t sense it as clearly as he could before.

Dean started when Bobby stormed in, making a half-assed attempt to hide his beer behind his hip as he leaned against the kitchen counter. He followed the old hunter's eyes towards the couch, and something nasty went 'flip-turn-pain' in his chest at the sight; his duffel bag lay overturned, jeans and shirts and underwear lying in a mess of clothing on the couch.

"I really fucking didn't," he cursed, dropping the full bottle of beer on the table and stalking towards the couch. Castiel's voice stopped him cold, and he paused with one hand stuffed as far as it could reach in the reaches of his bag. 

Sam got up from the table. "Where is it? Dean, the stone..."

"It's not here. Fuck, Sammy, it's not here," he grumbled back, upending the bag and glaring at it. He'd left the damned stone right over his clothes, could almost remember stuffing it back in last as they left the last motel. "Where the hell is the freakin' witch?" More ruffling followed but it was clearly useless, because there was just no way the stone would still be here now, not if Cas couldn't sense it anymore.

Sam shuffled closer, looking dejected and guilty. "Shit. I should've kept a closer eye on her, I swear she was just outside and then the lights went all... Well, you know. I fled inside," he finished lamely.

Dean closed his eyes and sighed. "Fuck." That seemed to about cover it, really, and he shot both Castiel and Bobby a helpless look. "This is my fault, I should've taken the damn thing upstairs." He got up and stalked towards the door. "She can't have gotten far, I mean, she's just human now," he added as he bolted outside.

Only to stop dead in his tracks and stare helplessly at the empty spot where the Impala had been parked. She wasn't there. Clearly she had been, because Dean could still see the tire tracks in the dirt. But she wasn't there anymore. He spun around, wildly cast his eyes over the jumbled mess of Bobby's yard and turned back towards the empty spot.

"Bitch stole my damn car!" he exploded, just as Sam shuffled outside. "She fucking stole my baby, Sammy. Son of a bitch, I knew I should've ganked her when I had the chance!"

Sam, to his everlasting credit, flinched and had the grace to look appalled and shocked. There was a long pause, during which Dean kicked at the nearest wrecked car--a rather gorgeous '72 Mustang, which his boot mangled violently, even though his toes protested--and then Sam cleared his throat and reached out to drop a heavy hand on Dean's shoulder.

"You never removed the sigils from under the trunk, right? Maybe we can track it," he said, and Dean could've hugged him.

"Yeah. Yeah, I suppose we could. Dude, seriously, when I find that bitch? Dead meat. I'm gonna make her eat her menthol cigarettes."

“One of the maps we made of the keystone’s locations is gone as well,” Castiel said, frowning and reaching out with his other senses to try and find Bri and the impala. He found nothing but strove harder anyway. “She’s hidden from me.” 

Bobby swore. “This is just great, are you sure she didn’t know anything, Cas?” the older hunter looked at the angel curiously.

“I didn’t sense any lie when she said she didn’t know anything… I thought it would be unwise to read too deeply into the mind of Azrael’s vessel.” Castiel gave them all a slightly helpless look. “The chances it could have enraged Azrael or seemed like an attack were too great.”

The fact that he’d been scared of his big brother smiting him for it, he left unsaid. Instead he looked around the kitchen. “What else did she take?” 

“She had me pull out a grip of components for what she claimed would be a warding ritual. It seemed more like something for a summoning; a lot of it didn’t make sense either. The copper bowl I had it all in is gone too,” Bobby said, frowning and looking around the kitchen. 

Bri couldn’t believe her luck. It’d been way too easy for her to nab the keystone and a map from the Winchesters. “How those idiots managed to thwart the frigging apocalypse… and this piece of shit car. I mean, it’s a sin it’s automatic,” she muttered to herself as she drove away from Bobby’s as fast as she could push the Impala.

Once she decided she was far enough away she parked the Impala and got out. It was no difficulty to set up a summoning ritual and wait, keystone in hand, for something to turn up. She hoped it wasn’t hellhounds because being a chew toy was not on her top ten list.

As it was, Crowley sensed her first; he'd been waiting for just this occasion, had been laying low from the second he'd felt that twitchy little bitch Azrael depart and leave his vessel behind. It hadn't taken much thought to keep his hounds off the girl's scent; all good things came to those who waited, he knew, and here she was, in Winchester's car no less, and carrying what smelled like one of those cursed stones.

He materialized about half a second before the ritual was actually completed, and waited peacefully by the side of the road until the girl had said her piece. After that he was walking, eyeing her like a second-hand piece of steak, which she clearly was. The fact that she was months past the day she'd been supposed to show up on his doorstep made him grin.

"Well, well, well. Aren't we in a hurry to phone home, love? I hear and obey," he said, splaying his hands out to show willing. "I'll be honest, I didn't expect you so soon. Did the Winchesters throw you out? Pretty thing like you, I can't imagine." He grinned, motioned quickly with one hand and materialized a stout, stubby cigar to match Abrianna's cigarette. 

It wasn't a fair comparison, because the thing in his hand was at least a dozen years old and dipped in aged rum, but he still flicked a thumb up against his hand in a parody of flicking a lighter and lit his cigar, puffing out blue smoke in the darkening sky. The crossroads were silent around them.

"Let me guess, you're here about your little deal." He eyed the stone in the girl's hand and smirked, circling carefully around her. "A bit past your best-before date, aren't you? I do hope you know, it's a fucking pain to keep the hounds off your ever so perky ass. It's a good job I'm the big boss underground, otherwise you'd already be in chains and suffering." He took a long drag from his cigar and leaned closer, breathing out in her face. "And we can't have that, can we? So. Do wax poetic about your sob story for being here, I'm all ears, love."

Abrianna hated demons with a passion. They were smug little cockroaches and damned hard to keep in check, that was why she for the most part really didn’t want to become one. But alas she was doomed for the moment. She was pleased she didn’t flinch when Crowley popped up and started talking though.

“I’m not here to grovel for mercy; hell, I don’t even want to break my deal,” she said, blinking through the acrid smoke Crowley had blown in her face. “I just want an extension. The Winchesters and their angelic friends are after what they’re calling ‘keystones’. I figure they gotta be worth something, I know angels get ganked if they touch them. Same for demons.”

She licked her lips and took a drag from her cigarette. Either she was about to die or not; she wasn’t going to cower before a demon to try and save herself. “I have the one Dean picked up and a map to where the others are. The map’s in the trunk under a devil’s trap as I’m sure you know. All I want is to have a long natural life then you can have my soul, in return I’ll round up the stones and keep Azrael out of my melon. Or I suppose I could always just call him here.” She shrugged slightly.

Azrael would be pissed that whatever he was doing was interrupted, but she knew the archangel needed a living vessel so he’d come, and come quickly.

Crowley stepped back and made a dutiful attempt of listening to the girl's request. When she'd finished speaking he laughed, a thin, echoing sound. "And what, pray tell, makes you think these stones are even worth anything to me, girl? Let me tell you something." He slinked closer, tapping ash from his cigar straight onto Abrianna's shoe. 

"I couldn't give a flying rat's ass about the stones. They're just more angelic baubles to me; pretty things, sure, but I have truckloads of pretty and useful things hidden away. Now, what really interests me is you, love." He took another long drag from his cigar and smirked.

"You, who's seen everything our darling little archangel has seen. You, who's been riding around the globe while he flits around like a damned magpie, listening and listening and making darling little plans. Which I'm just dying to learn more about, by the way." He raised a hand, snapped his fingers and stepped back, motioning to the hounds that shifted and materialized around them both.

He petted one absentmindedly--bless their little hearts, but this one was so eager for the hunt it was almost shaking--and gestured with his cigar at the girl. "Your continued existence for a rock and a piece of paper that leads me to more rocks I can't touch? I'm offended, I really am. Surely you know me better than that. And you're out of time; you reek of wasted opportunities, and I can't wait to get your, shall we be crude? Size four ass on the rack."

He slowly raised his hand away from the hellhound's neck, and it bristled and snarled at his side. "So, do you need a countdown, love? Because I can pick up whatever stones you've ever so helpfully brought to me after my darling little puppies have feasted on you." Crowley let his hand drop back at his side and wrapped his lips around his cigar again, and that was all the motivation the hounds needed to jump, all of them acting as one and making a beeline for Abrianna.

“Not even going let me finish my cigarette, ain’t that a bitch,” Abrianna muttered, tossing her cigarette aside, her eyes darting around trying to spot the hellhounds. Crowley could see them but she sure as fuck couldn’t. There was no point in trying to run; she’d get three steps at most. But there were uses for having an archangel that needed to ride around in your meat. Abrianna dropped the keystone and closed her eyes.

Before the stone hit the ground or the hellhound leading the pack finished its leap, Azrael’s presence screamed out of hell and the Archangel’s being poured into his vessel with a rush. He’d been somewhere deep and dark in hell where there’d been no angelic signs moments before. It had to echo along any otherworldly sense Crowley had.

Abrianna’s eyes snapped open and the archangel riding her snatched the hellhound out of the air and vaporized it. Azrael rolled his shoulders and with a gesture the rest of the hellhounds met the same fate.

“You really should have made that deal, demon,” he said, reaching out to pin Crowley in place with his grace. “Can you even contemplate the monumental inconvenience you just caused me? Can you? I was this,” he held his fingers a short distance away from each other, “close. I could taste it, I was that close. Then you had to try and kill my vessel. All that effort wasted! I’m going to peel you like a chestnut for this, you insignificant insect!”

Castiel went rigid as Azrael’s voice screamed into existence in the host again. This wasn’t the first time he’d heard an archangel’s voice raised to its full volume in wrath before. But it was the first time he’d heard it coupled with the knowledge it’d started in hell. 

His mind followed Azrael’s path to where he landed and reclaimed his vessel. The host vibrated and hummed in reaction to Azrael’s voice being uplifted in rage. “I know where Abrianna is,” he said, reaching out to grip Sam and Dean’s shoulders and with a rush of air he took them to where Azrael was. Just in time for them to see Azrael vaporizing the hellhounds and rounding on Crowley. “Azrael has reclaimed his vessel.”

"Oh, I don't know," Crowley answered, and if he was in any way surprised or inconvenience by the archangel's grace, he didn't show it beyond a wince and a slight uncomfortable shudder. "I think I just got myself an even better deal, namely a nice, big, fiery line straight through my own garden to follow. And now I can be my own curious, gorgeous little self and find out what it is exactly that an archangel was doing rooting around my shit!"

His voice rose as he spoke though, until he was near purple in the face and clearly pissed off; still, he didn't move, couldn't so much as lift a finger against the force bearing down against him.

And so it wasn't Crowley who shouted, reared back and took a massive swing at Azrael. It was Dean, stalking towards the small angel while both angel and demon were snarling at each other. He'd arrived destabilized and dizzy--one day he'd have to have serious words with Cas about the angel express--only to stare in bemused anger at the Impala. Behind him, Castiel's voice had rung out in a quiet rumble but Dean hardly heard him; he'd shouldered past Sammy, who'd made a brave if pointless attempt to grab for his arm, and stumbled along towards his car.

"Dean," Sam had hissed, eyes flickering urgently towards Crowley and the archangel's vessel. "Your stupid car is fine!"

Eyeing the side panel and door critically for a moment, Dean had studiously ignored Sam before sticking his head through the open driver's side door. Thank fuck nothing had been scratched, but Abrianna was still standing all the way over there, and the cloying, overpowering stink of her cigarettes had wafted not from her but from the upholstery as Dean had checked inside the car. "She smoked in Baby! Little red-haired bitch smoked in my car!" he'd barked, and that had been when he'd taken a swing at her.

In hindsight, it might have been wise to take a little more notice of his surroundings. Dean's fist connected with the girl's face with all the jarring force of striking as hard as he could into a cement block. His throat crumbled around a pathetic, surprised whine and he turned around, cradling a throbbing fist protectively against his chest.

"Nng, shit. Shit! Really have to learn to stop punching angels," he muttered through clenched teeth.

Azrael blinked and went wide-eyed and startled when Dean punched him. His surprise was palpable and for a second his hold on Crowley loosened just a hair. The archangel blinked again and reached up to clap Dean on the shoulder, amused. “You follow that big fiery line, demon. Tell me what you find at the end of it, if you can. I was on the heels of someone parading as an archangel,” he said, smirking.

“When he peels the flesh from your bones, let me know. Or just scream my name, I’ll hear you. Or better yet, scream his name so I know whom I should send flowers to. To thank him.” Azrael let completely go of the demon and flared his grace out in a threatening manner, staring at Crowley.

Castiel winced when Dean hauled off and punched Azrael in the face. But he was relieved when Azrael didn’t crush Dean like an insect. He side stepped around Sam and hurried to Dean’s side and pulled him away from striking distance of the archangel. “I did warn you,” the angel chided, trying not to glare at either Dean or Azrael. 

“Stop posturing, Castiel. I’m not going to crush your pet,” Azrael said, looking down at the keystone at his feet then carefully stepping around it. “Make sure they lock that up. I’m going to go try and salvage what I was doing.”

Crowley laughed out a thin, humourless laugh, slumping slightly when the power around him extinguished itself. He almost hid his relief, covering it instead with a wry smirk and a barely-there shrug. "Right, of course, you overgrown bird. Because everyone knows Hell is just brimming with your kind, wandering around unnoticed. I'll be sure to give your feathery friend my regards," he said before disappearing just as a burst of grace buffeted him.

It was unpleasant and felt like something soiled and too bright, and the last image anyone had of him was of his scowling face as he rocked slightly on his feet and winked out of existence.

Dean let himself be pulled away from Azrael's grasp, thankful that particular contact didn't need to go on another second; if he'd thought being close to Cas was weird, this was about a million times stranger, and a hell of a lot more unpleasant. The hand on his shoulder, while it had looked clearly human, hadn't felt right, hadn't felt normal at all. It was close to a heated lead weight being dropped against his spine and he mumbled a confused mix of apology and thanks at Castiel.

His hand was now a bright flare of pain radiating up his arm, but he still managed to angle himself away from Azrael and glare at the archangel as though he was personally responsible for his damned face feeling like a concrete wall. 

"Yeah, well, I didn't hear... I didn't think, really. Bitch tore up a hole in the leather seat, too," he said, breath hitching in pain as he tried to flex his fingers. His hand felt like a burning, cramped claw. And, truth be told, it had been really a very small scuff mark on the very edge of the passenger seat's upholstery, and he wasn't even sure it hadn't been there before.

Dean bristled slightly at being called anyone's pet though, and was about to open his mouth to blurt out that, hey, he wasn't the one with the animal body parts in this party when Sam thankfully interrupted him.

"We'll take the stone, and any other we can find, into Bobby's panic room. Should be safe there," Sammy said diplomatically.

It escaped nobody's notice how Azrael gingerly sidestepped around the stone, giving it a wide berth as he walked a few feet away.

Unbidden, the thought rose in Dean's mind that, while Azrael was definitely a right dick and a complete bastard--all angels were, pretty much, except for Cas--, he was miles better than his vessel, and he said so, muttering under his breath. "Think I actually like him better when he's not a self-righteous witch who steals cars." He briefly entertained the idea of asking the archangel to keep a closer eye on his damned vessel when he was out on errands but restrained himself, if only because he was fairly sure this would lead to him being splattered as a long greasy smear on the pavement.

"Steals your car, you mean," Sam piped in, crouching to pick up the stone. He hesitated only a moment and gingerly wrapped his fingers around it. Nothing happened, and Sam pocketed the stone with a relieved exhale of breath. "You've stolen more cars than anyone I know."

"Only because I had to, Sammy, and none of those cars were as awesome as my baby."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah, of course. Because no car is as awesome as yours."

"Damn right they ain't." Dean grinned, though it was a little strained, on account of his feeling like he'd broken every bone in his hand. He wouldn't stoop to asking for healing angel mojo because it had been his own stupid fault and this clearly wasn't life-threatening, but he still shuffled a few steps closer to Castiel anyway. Sammy, of course, noticed, raised an eyebrow at him but didn't say anything.

Azrael snorted, popped his neck and with a rush of air he was gone. Castiel cleared his throat and shuffled closer to Dean. “I… should go see what exactly Azrael was up to,” he said, shifting his weight from foot to foot. 

He squeezed Dean’s shoulder and healed his hand with a slight smile. “When you head out to go after the next keystone, call me,” he said, stepping away from both brothers and looking around. “I would get the one you have back to Bobby’s quickly.”

He looked down at the ground then back up to Sam and Dean. “I’ll be around,” he added, and with a rush of air he had followed Azrael wherever he’d fluttered off to.

Dean managed a grateful nod when he felt the strange rush of warmth flow over his hand. By the time Cas had stepped away, the throbbing pain wasn't much more than a memory and Sammy was staring at him, again. He frowned, adjusted his jacket and stepped forward to swipe the keystone from Sam's hand.

"Right, so, back to Bobby's we go, and this time I ain't letting this friggin' piece of rock out of my sight." A pause, and Sam's eyes followed him curiously as he made his way back to his car. He stopped with one hand on the handle of the driver's side door and stared right back at his brother. "What? Have I got something on my face?"

"You look at him different," Sammy blurted out, and Dean almost choked on his tongue.

He pulled open the door with a bit more force than strictly necessary and slipped inside. "Jesus, this again? Just get in the car, Sam," he barked, starting the car and dropping the stone unceremoniously on his brother's lap the second his ass hit the seat. Sammy's clearly uncomfortable frown and subsequent attempt at getting the stone out of his lap while touching it as little as possible was almost enough to lighten Dean's mood.

Unfortunately, it didn't last.

"Really, Dean, we need to talk, and I swear if you stick a tape in the radio and blast up the volume to pretend you don't hear me, I'm never speaking to you again."

Dean's face scrunched up unpleasantly and he pulled out of the ditch by the side of the road. "That a promise?" he muttered.

"Dean..."

"Jesus fuck, Sam, okay, fine. Yes, we fucked. Friggin' hell, what difference does it make to you?" Dean grumbled, eyes fixed on the road.

He almost heard the exasperated eye roll. "It matters, you idiot, because that's exactly the reaction I'd been expecting. Cas is our friend, your friend, and the only ally except for Bobby who's stuck with us this long; he's not some dude you picked up in a bar."

There was a long silence, and Dean contemplated not answering. Of course he knew that. He tried his hardest not to think about it, but he knew it, knew in his gut that if somehow these little romps got out of control he was liable to destroy something a lot more valuable than he was comfortable admitting. Not just because Sammy was right about the ally part--though God knew they needed all the help they could get right now--but because Cas had become something of a permanent fixture in their, in his, life, and he wasn't sure he could deal with losing that.

There was a knife's edge, somewhere, and Dean didn't know exactly where it was or how close to walking it he was. And as much as Sammy probably thought he was helping, these goddamned chick-flick talks only served to further confuse him.

"I... know that, man. God, you think I don't know that? But I mean, it's like I can't stop and... And I just have no fucking idea what I'm doing," he finally admitted.

Sam, instead of bristling up like Dean had expected, sort of relaxed in his seat and turned to shoot him a small smile. Dean blinked, because right now he'd just exploded through confused and emerged on the other side of it somewhere.

"Okay, good," Sam said, still smiling.

"... Good?"

"Yeah, good."

Dean stared at him another long moment and finally reached for a tape--a mix tape of several of his favourite Rolling Stones hits--before shaking his head and stuffing it into the car's cassette deck. "Seriously, Samantha, sometimes talking to you is like a crash course in female psychology."

"Oh, just shut up and drive," Sam answered mildly.

The rest of the drive back to Bobby's happened in blessed normalcy; they argued the best songs on Dean's mix tape--'Satisfaction', in Sam's case, and 'Paint it Black' in Dean's, and Dean gave Sammy a bit of shit about going for the easy hit--while Sam vainly tried to convince Dean to let him plug in his iPod so he could share a few songs of his own. This, of course, didn't pass muster, so they were halfway through a different Led Zeppelin album--'Sympathy for the Devil' had been hailed as a poor choice by both of them and Dean had quickly switched tapes--when they finally reached Bobby's yard.

Dean grabbed the stone and quickly made his way inside. "Yo, Bobby. We survived. Sammy," he added as he entered the house and turned towards his brother, "think you can figure out where we should go next? I'm going to go downstairs and make sure this damned thing is good and safe in the panic room."

Sam followed close behind him and made a beeline for the kitchen, where he quickly rustled through the maps and notes they'd made earlier about the locations of the stones. "Gotcha."


	12. Hot and Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Castiel learns something, Dean is given a gift, and the Winchesters are informed of a possible Judas in there midst.

Castiel didn’t enjoy having to chase Azrael down. Or having to demand answers of the archangel. But Azrael had been in hell, without word that he was going, without permission. “Azrael, why where you in hell?” he demanded when finally Azrael stopped moving.

“Because I was trying to find what worm was pretending to be Samael so I could kill him myself,” Azrael said without any sign of remorse. There was an acrid scent of sulphur and smoke around him that clung to his grace from his recent trip into hell.

“You know the rules; we don’t go into hell alone, Azrael. If you had been found by demons in hell and alone, you could have been killed,” Castiel growled, trying to convince himself that he really was worried about Azrael’s safety, not that he would lose his only reliable ally. Gabriel was around but that didn’t mean he was going to deal with Raphael any time soon. It was selfish but it was true, and Gabriel was tracking down the fallen. Azrael had no reason to interfere. 

“Castiel, don’t get all righteous on me. I was well hidden until I had to save my vessel, even you could not sense me.” Azrael smirked and regarded Castiel with a certain smug air. “Run along and see to your pets. I’ll behave, I promise.”

* * *

“I take it His Highness swooped back into his vessel? Or did you two idjits bury her in a ditch?” Bobby asked, looking over at Sam. The older hunter watched Sam look over the maps. “Anything interesting happen while you were away?”

“Yeah, interesting, I guess you could say that,” Sam shot back, shuffling through the loose papers on the desk until he could find the one he was looking for. The map was crudely drawn, but it would do; it was all they had at the moment anyway, with Cas out there somewhere doing his angel thing. “Nothing of actual interest to any of this, though. I gotta say, Bobby, I think Dean’s in way over his head on this one.”

He paused, fingered the edge of the map and manhandled his laptop onto the table. “And I mean over his head in the sense that I have no idea what he’s doing, with Cas. It’ll probably bite us in the ass later, but if you want to talk to him, be my guest,” he added, waiting for the laptop to boot. “I think I’m done playing peacekeeper or matchmaker or whatever, for now.”

Dean, for his part, was trudging downstairs in relative quiet. He dropped the stone haphazardly onto the cot in the middle of the panic room, glanced around and sighed. Last time he’d checked, this room was warded against everything but angels, and he had no direct idea how properly go about achieving that. In the absence of anything constructive, he settled for his pocketknife and his forearm, dragging bloody fingers along the outside wall of the room in the only sigil he could remember, the banishing symbol he could slap a hand on and zap any angels with.

It would require direct intervention, but he was pretty sure Sammy and Bobby could come up with better protection soon enough; they’d copied that book, after all. 

He closed the door and made his way back upstairs, feeling a little out of sorts knowing that Cas was out there grilling that bastard Azrael on his own. Sammy was in the kitchen with Bobby when he sauntered in. Uncertain that he wanted to face another conversation but not quite willing to stay away just yet, he pulled up a chair and sat down, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Wards downstairs gonna need reinforcing against angels,” he forced out.

Bobby grunted and moved to the sink to pour himself a glass of whiskey. “I doubt either of them know exactly what they’re doing. They’ll figure it out soon enough I’m sure,” he said just as Dean shuffled back upstairs, taking a healthy drink of his whiskey and turning around to look at the eldest Winchester. “I’ll get on that tomorrow.”

Sam rolled his eyes and got up. “I got a couple places lined up for us. The, uh, nearest is actually, uhm…”

“Freakin’ hell, Sam, just spit it out, would you?”

“Somewhere near Chicago, Dean. Just north of—“

“Yeah, okay, I get it. Jeez, it’s not a bed of plague, man; it’s not even on the way, ” Dean interrupted. He wondered, briefly, how wise this was; but even if by some pure, exceedingly bad luck they somehow ran into Lisa, he knew it wasn’t his gig anymore. They’d parted on more or less friendly terms—God, he knew she was even dating again, and that was already one speck of information too many—but if Dean could manage to avoid the awkward of a meeting, he sure as hell would.

Especially now.

Sammy, the little perceptive bastard, voiced his next thought. “So, Cas said we should call him when we head out. Are we heading out now?”

“No way,” he grunted. “I’m beat. I’m not sleeping in a motel tonight.” And delaying seemed a good idea, just in case; due East wasn’t exactly Dean’s favourite choice of destination right then. “I’m gonna crash, and we can head out in the morning.”

“You both going after this one?” Bobby cut in, looking between the brothers. “Seems to me that since angels and demons can’t touch them it’d make more sense to split up and both of you go after one of them.”

“You two get your beauty rest and decide what you’re gunna do in the morning. It’s been a long day.” Bobby made a shooing motion with his hands to send them both up to bed. The thought that he should start charging ‘his’ boys rent occurred to him and he snorted a laugh into his whiskey.

"Yeah, we'll see, I guess," Dean answered, stretching to his feet as he shot his brother a shit-eating grin, "Not sure I want to let Samantha go after the big scary rock collection all on her lonesome." He ducked just as he passed Sammy, who took a very half-hearted swipe at his head.

"Dean, what the hell? I wasn't sure it wouldn't, like, bite me in the soul or something."

"Sure, sure. We'll discuss it tomorrow anyway. 'Night."

Sam deflated a bit and nodded at him. "Yeah, 'night. I'm gonna check local landmarks and see where the stone could be, then check where else we could go."

"Don't stay up too late, squirt."

He heard a snort coming from the vague vicinity of the freakin' ceiling as Sammy stood up behind him and chuckled to himself. They were still very much knee-deep in shit, with the added bonus that Cas' archangel-up-his-sleeve now seemed even less trustworthy than he had before. He'd have to ask Castiel what the hell was up with his big bad angel lieutenant just wandering down into hell for a stroll. But later; right now was a time for the snooze button. All that shit would still be there tomorrow.

* * *

Attempting to get answers out of Azrael was similar to trying to get Dean to listen to reason. It never worked the way you wanted it to. Castiel found his patience was worn to a thread when he finally left Azrael alone and winged his way back to Bobby’s. He hadn’t tried to get answers very long in all honesty; it just wasn’t worth it to bicker. Either Azrael would show his hand in the end or he wouldn’t. 

Castiel decided to simply take himself to Dean’s room rather than any of the public spaces. As much as he liked Bobby and Sam he was worried about Dean after his breakdown earlier. It had been a glimpse between the cracks of just what the weight of all this was going to Dean. It just sort of solidified his feeling that rescuing him from hell had not been a great service; 'out of the fire and into the frying pan’, if he could twist one of the few human sayings he knew and understood enough to twist.

Still stretching, Dean made his way upstairs, stumbled a bit in the corridor as he yawned and blinked and finally got into his room. He closed the door, grunted out a muttered curse about the lack of lights and stumbled into the room only to stop short about a few feet from the bed.

There was a shape sitting there, and for a brief few seconds he almost reached for the gun still tucked into his jeans before the shape revealed itself to be Castiel's, strangely square in the too-big trench coat and darker than it should've been in the gloom.

"Jesus, Cas. Warn a guy before you just pop up in his room and do the stalkery lying in wait thing, hmm?" he grumbled, though his voice was just a touch breathy and not a single bit accusing. The talk with Sammy was still trotting around his brain like a damned train going 'round and 'round the tracks; he still didn't know where he stood or where that damned knife's edge was, didn't know how to measure how far he could take this before it all went to hell on him.

Didn't even know if he wanted to try and find that limit, that comfortable line which he, as a rule, very resolutely did not cross, or if he just wanted to ignore it and cheerfully blunder through into territory that... Well, he wasn't even sure. But from this side of fucked up and exhausted, it sure as hell looked warmer and greener and just overall less like suck on the other side of that proverbial fence.

He sighed, bent to quickly unlace his shoes and toed them off as he straightened. "How's our favorite sassy redhead, then? I take it he wasn't too pissed off I'd slugged him one?" Dean asked, reaching over his shoulders to bunch up his shirt and slip it over his head. He slinked closer and gracelessly flopped down onto the bed at Castiel's side, leaning back to prop himself on bent elbows and shooting the angel a winsome smile that would hopefully mask the sound of his brain screaming at him not to fuck this up.

And he was secretly pleased, too; Cas had told them to call him, and after that stint a few weeks ago when the angel had simply disappeared without notice, or the near year when Dean saw neither trench coat nor disheveled hair of him, it felt pretty damn good to find Castiel reaching out to them for a change. Though if he was honest to himself, Dean had to admit it was mostly the reaching out for him which had him grinning.

Unless something had gone wrong, which wasn't at all impossible. "Everything alright?" he finally tacked onto the end of his previous sentence, brow creasing in worry.

“I doubt that Azrael even understood your punch as an attack, Dean,” Castiel said, watching Dean pull off his shirt and tilting his head as Dean flopped onto the bed next to where he sat. “Azrael has always kept his own council on his own actions.” 

“The fact that he was in hell is unsettling, but his intentions seemed true. Everything seems to be fine.” He sighed and on impulse reached out to trail his fingers over Dean’s spine. “If Azrael is anything it is loyal to the host, so whatever reason he was in hell for, it was surely nothing nefarious.” 

He blinked and tilted his head; Azrael was apparently taking out his temper on Raphael. He could hear now their distinct voices rumbling through the host like thunder in the distance. “If anything, Crowley’s attempt to kill his vessel seems to have energized him,” he said with an amused twist of his lips. “He’s picked another fight with Raphael.” He closed his eyes to listen better. 

“Would you like to hear it?” he asked, looking down at Dean and wiggling his fingers slightly. He wasn’t sure Dean would be able to pick out the individual voices well enough to hear was he knew was coming but it would be worth the attempt.

"Good. Guess I wasn't thinking particularly straight. But smoking in the damn car, man... That's just not done. She could've burned a hole in the upholstery and then there really would've been hell to pay," Dean retorted, stuttering over his words as Castiel's fingers landed lightly against his back. He pressed back into the faint touch, arching off the bed slightly; he was tired, probably needed a shower, but this quiet bit of stolen time, sprawled on this old bed with no less than an angel of the Lord for company, was reason enough to splurge a little on sensation.

"Shame the fucker didn't manage it, no offence to your trigger-happy friend. I mean, I suppose... Azrael isn't all bad. A bit annoying, maybe, and yeah, he's a dick at heart. But that witch? Goddamn, I could've strangled her." He didn't add that he'd never used his own shitty past as an excuse to go completely overboard, because it would've been hypocrisy. 

He hadn't gone rogue simply because he'd never got the occasion. He'd come close a few times, of course, and those near-misses often kept him awake at night. None were worse than the memory of what he'd become again, if briefly, when the angels had asked him to bust out the torture on Alastair. Plus, he was pretty sure it was still in him, had seen it in his own eyes in the bleak future; the same look that had lingered in Abrianna's face.

That, and Sammy had had his own share of shitty decision-making moments. Somehow the 'it's different for family' excuse didn't make much sense when viewed objectively from the point of view of the poor innocent bastard getting killed because he or she was in the wrong place at the very wrong time.

"Hear it?" Dean finally asked, twisting under Castiel's hand to flop onto his back. He stretched on the bed, lazily, and looked up at the angel from his upside down position, where Castiel's face looked ever so much more otherworldly and worrying, especially in the dim light. Sometimes he tended to forget how truly freakin' disturbing that sense of stillness was, how the angel always moved like every muscle twitch required conscious effort.

"You mean, like, the host song? You're hearing the fight on the angel radio waves? That's actually... pretty awesome, so why not?" He grinned, reached up and dropped his arm heavily over Castiel's lap. It was a move worthy of his best stretch-arm-over-the-seat-reach-out move in a darkened cinema, and his grin widened slightly as he pulled, trying to slide Cas closer. He ended up dragging himself against the angel's hip though, because the solid weight of angel simply didn't move.

Castiel let out a snort of amusement. “I’d rather not discuss my brother and his vessel,” he said, pressing his fingers lightly into Dean’s back in weak attempt to mirror the back rub he’d gotten from Dean weeks ago. 

He traced lines of muscle with his fingers and watched Dean while he thought. He could tell Dean was thinking and caught stray thoughts but didn’t bother to follow them. He tilted his head to the side as Dean rolled over and kept his hand wandering. “The host reacts to conflict; we all hear it. We hear when an angel dies, too.” He trailed his fingers along Dean’s ribs.

He reached up with his other hand and pressed his fingertips to Dean’s temple. “Close your eyes and listen,” he said, reaching out with his grace and twisting it slightly to let Dean hear what he heard. “The two deeper voices, like those bass lines you like in your music... The one that rumbles sort of like thunder, that’s Raphael, and the other is Azrael.”

The host was almost hushed as the two archangels circled. Normally, he didn’t think Dean would be able to make out the individual voices, but the rest of the host tended to run as a counterpoint to archangels when they fought. 

Raphael and Azrael’s voices rose and circled each other, spiraling higher. They didn’t rise in pitch so much as in urgency. It was like a vocal foot race, each archangel jockeying to pass the other, spiraling around the same centre point. They chased each other up and up in a crescendo that was backed by the rest of the host’s voices, arched and hummed as an undercurrent to Azrael’s and Raphael’s upwards spiral. 

It reached its peak, and teetered there, hanging in suspension just like that split second after a jump where you almost think you can fly, then both voices plummeted, dropping and falling, still screaming and spiraling even as they fell.

Dean was already grinning before, but when Castiel's hand resumed its path over his chest and stomach he dissolved into a happy, rumbling... not purring, not even close, and he'd swear it was more of a groan than anything else, though probably that wasn't fooling anyone. 

He'd gone way past lazy and tired all the way over to lethargic and loose, staring up at Cas with a halfway frozen--and probably very silly--half grin stuck on his face. The touch against his ribs almost broke the spell, hovering just on the edge of tickling but not quite enough to make him tense up. He reached down, loosely grabbed for Castiel's wrist and maneuvered his hand back to safer places.

"Close my... Jesus, okay," he mumbled as he saw the angel reach fingers towards his forehead. The sight of that hand going straight for his face had always been a little overwhelming--he never knew what the hell to expect, for one thing--but this time he more or less gave in, dutifully closed his eyes and tried to do as he was told.

"Is this going to be another one of those..." he started, then swiftly forgot how to breathe as the song suddenly rose in his mind. It was chaotic and quite difficult to make out, full of whorls and swirls of sounds, like several radio stations all competing with each other at full volume. Yet amidst the din two voices rose, like bribes of song more powerful and louder than the others. They shook with the power of a hundred goddamned electric basses, all thrumming and tension, until it exploded like colours in his mind and descended into the deep, supersonic vibrations he could barely recall hearing at a few choice concerts here and there, stolen moments between hunts when he was young enough to get away with it.

When the voices descended into silence, Dean suddenly remembered he had lungs to breathe with and gasped, snapping his eyes open and staring at the ceiling. "... Weird-ass angelic moments," he finished belatedly, secretly pleased that some dim corner of his brain had hung on long enough to make sense of his previous unfinished sentence. 

"Whoa, Cas. This... always happens when you guys fight? No wonder it always seems like you're a thousand miles away." And even more wonder, he thought, that Castiel could spare enough mental time to hang around with them, to lower himself to Dean's stupid, relentless attempts at getting him to experience shit like pie and beer and, Jesus, even sex. Though, to be fair, Dean was pretty sure that, after a couple hundred years of that song, he would personally welcome any kind of distraction.

“Only when it’s archangels; they tend to get quite a bit louder than the rest of us. Azrael tends to be… louder when he decides to be present in the host,” Castiel said, trailing his fingers across Dean’s forehead and down his face, along the line of his neck to trace his collar bone. 

Dean’s arm was still resting over Castiel's lap, and he made no attempt to pull it away. Cas, even from this awkward angle, was stupidly desirable, overdressed and prim as he was; Dean could see up a straight line from the base of the angel's throat to his jaw, and he reached up with his free hand, twined his fingers thrice in the tie at the angel's neck and pulled. "C'mere. Think I've had enough voices in my head for one night."

Castiel followed Dean’s tug at his tie and leaned closer. “Even when I seem like I’m not paying attention, I still hear you. I enjoy everything you want me to experience something you enjoy. Yes, I was in your head.” He shrugged slightly and found himself running his fingers over Dean’s ribs again, counting them as he did so. 

He rested his forehead against Dean’s. The sound of the host was washed out by being close to Dean. It wasn’t gone, but he found himself distracted by the green shade of Dean’s eyes, the freckles splattered over Dean’s cheeks and nose. It was the most curious thing, to find himself doing something so pointless as wanting to count those freckles.

The position they were in was strange so he shifted until he was half laying on the bed next to Dean and partially on him. “My tie isn’t a leash, you know,” he said, smiling slightly.

"You know, you're a real sneaky bastard sometimes, Cas," Dean shot back, shivering at the too-soft touches. There was something altogether weird about the way Castiel's fingers brushed down his face; it was too slow, too close, and his chest constricted painfully when the touch at his ribs returned, although this time it had nothing at all to do with Dean being ticklish.

He should've either pulled away or flipped them over, turn those touches into something a lot more familiar and not so damned soft, like he was made of some breakable stuff and Cas was being friggin' careful not to break him. The look that settled over Castiel's face when the angel leaned closer was, if anything, even worse than the casual way he let his fingers wander over Dean's collarbone. But it was so Cas, a sort of slightly unfocused stare full of concentration and fondness, that Dean couldn't help but chuckle.

Those eyes were damned close to him now, and Jesus, if he'd thought they were blue before they were now damned near freaking fluorescent, a ridiculous shade of impossible blue in the gloom. Dean certainly had no business noticing them like this--and certainly no business waxing poetic in his mind about their colour, like he was a teenage girl crushing over some hunky football captain--but that couldn't be helped, not right now, with Cas nearly sprawled over him. That 'nearly' part definitely had to be remedied though, so Dean released the tie for a second and reached for Castiel's hips, pulling him up and against him until the angel was half-sprawled, half-seated on his lap.

"No mind-reading, you Vulcan. It's not allowed and it's not fair," Dean muttered, returning his hand to the tie. He gave it a swift, light tug, little more than a tease of the silk even though the angel probably hardly felt it, and leaned up to brush his lips against Castiel's as he spoke around a faint groan. "I was thinking of getting you a collar with a damned bell on, just so you could stop sneaking up on me. But I like this just fine."

Of course the thought of leashes and collars did strange, pleasant things to Dean's gut. He wondered, for a few seconds, if Cas would pick up on these thoughts, full of enough lovely images to supply him with several weeks' worth of long shower distraction. 

"On second thought, you're probably right, Cas," he finally said against Castiel's lips, reaching further up the tie to dig his fingers through the always too-loose knot and pull. "You should lose the tie. In fact, you should probably lose all the clothes. You wear way too many clothes." This was added as Dean dropped the tie onto the bed and pushed at the familiar trench coat, slipping it off the angel's shoulders with a lazy smile.

“You know I could keep a bell silent if I wanted to sneak up on you, right?” Castiel asked, shifting as Dean pulled him more or less on top of him. He shifted to straddle Dean’s hips and found himself smiling when Dean tugged his tie again. “You’re welcome to test the bell theory if you really want to.”

He ran his tongue over Dean’s lower lip and followed it with a light grazing of his teeth and sat up. “I would say I could always wear less clothing, but I believe current human social conventions frown on that.” It was probably a bad joke. But Castiel didn’t care; he shrugged out of his trench coat and his suit jacket.

“Better?” He tilted his head to the side and debated on using his grace to remove his shoes and the rest of his clothing that much faster. But it was fun when Dean and he rolled around and struggled out of their clothing that way.

Dean found himself smiling at the apparently easy grace with which Cas took to this more or less sudden turn in the evening. He was reasonably certain the angel hadn't shared his mojo and weird angel song in an attempt to get him into bed; for one thing, it was a ridiculous thought, and for another, Dean Winchester really wasn't that hard to persuade to lose all his clothes.

Ringing up the heavenly choir for background music was way, way, way over the top. 

Still, this no-nonsense, easy mood suited him just fine, and he almost chuckled at Castiel's attempts at humour. "Hey, I'm always game for less clothes, Cas. But I don't think the world is quite ready for that, no." He still followed the trail of disappearing clothing with his hands, reaching up to work the buttons of Castiel's shirt open.

And this time he took his sweet time, because so far all he'd gotten was either Cas already naked in the shower, or that vivid and quick tumble in the hotel. So he unbuttoned every single bit of plastic his fingers came across, then dragged his hands down to grip Castiel's hips and slide him lower over his lap so he could lean up and start to explore. "Don't tempt me, man," he muttered against skin, lips gliding over a sharp collarbone with a breathless chuckle.

"I might actually... hit you up with an actual collar and bell..." His voice was muffled as he slid lower to mouth a path to one dark nipple, where he worried the flesh briefly between his teeth. He saw, clear as day, the mental image of Cas wearing a little golden kitty's bell; it would be so worth it for the look on Sammy's face, though he was pretty sure his brother's brain didn't need anymore breaking. He still chuckled throatily before leaning back, forcing his hands away from Castiel's ass where he'd been unconsciously kneading to start undoing the fastenings of his trousers.

The angel looked insanely glorious like this, all flushed skin and ridiculously tousled hair, and Dean couldn't resist making the picture even better. He paused in his task of getting those damned pants open and reached up to fist one hand lightly in Castiel's hair, pulling the angel down until he could properly capture his lips. He wasted no time being polite about it, slicking his tongue once against Castiel's lips before sucking his lower lip between his own, a strangled groan rising muffled between them as he hazily busied his free hand with the stiff and rarely used zipper of the angel's slacks.

When he finally got them open he was more than breathless and had to come up for air; if he felt a bit dizzy from the kiss he didn't waste any energy trying to explain it away, simply let his back and shoulders hit the mattress again. His hands met at Castiel's hips and he slowly tugged the linen of his pants down, past sharp hipbones and down over his thighs.

This was the first time Dean had really let himself look at the angel like this, and, yeah, he had to admit he liked what his saw. He wasn't even aware of his hands as he stared, but they roamed over Castiel's slightly fairer skin, Dean's eyes tracking the movement lazily, a touch overwhelmed that this was actually happening again.

Castiel watched impassively as Dean undid the buttons on his shirt. Dean’s hands fascinated him. They were good hands; the sort of hands warriors or people who did manual labor had. He hissed when Dean closed his lips around his nipple and worried it. “I wouldn’t be against that.” He caught hints of Dean’s imagining him in a collar with a bell on it.

It wasn’t an unpleasant thought but being pulled down into a kiss was far more pleasant. He mirrored Dean’s groan with one of his own and lifted his hips to help get his pants off. He tossed his shirt aside and fought with his shoes to try and toe them off. He let out an aggravated huff and simply used his grace to get rid of them.

“Human clothing is far too complicated,” he muttered, reaching between them, trying to undo Dean’s pants. Another aggravated huff and he whisked the rest of both of their clothing away. “Far, far too complicated,” he grumbled, looking down at Dean and blinking as he realized he was being stared at. 

He licked his lips and ran his hands down Dean’s chest nervously. “What do you see when you look at me?” he asked, curiously running his hands up Dean’s arms and catching a hold of his hands. There was some sort of emotion bubbling inside him. He didn’t have a name for it but the annoyance he’d felt at his and Dean’s clothing seemed to have melted away when he saw the look on Dean’s face. It was intriguing and still new enough that he didn’t know quite what to do about it.

Dean opened his mouth to throw out a comment about Cas and clothes--really, it was just a bit ridiculous, how this angel could apparently manage to conjure up the most complex binding sigils in freakin' existence but found himself confused by shoes and zippers--but the sudden shock of relatively cool air over his skin stunned him into silence.

Castiel sat back as he tilted his head and went for his hands and Dean released a low, pleased hiss at the warm slide of skin against him, inching up instinctively to press his cock against the warmth of Castiel's own. He knew they could get off just like this, but Dean wasn't in any hurry and instead pulled his hands back slowly, intending to go for another bruising kiss. Castiel's inquisitive words brought him up short.

"What do I see?" he breathed, blinking up at the angel, mind working furiously to try and decide wether he should answer that or not. It wasn't even a difficult question, really; he saw a freakin' lot, but most of it was simple. He saw someone who looked like Jimmy, but clearly wasn't, saw the big blue eyes and the face and, yeah, those lips, any of which might be enough on their own. Wielded together, the effect was devastating, especially when Cas went all intense on him, when his mind was clearly working away at a thought and the intensity of whatever creature lived behind that face sort of showed through.

Like right now, Dean thought as he coughed into the silence. "Dude, really, that's not the sort of question you ask a guy when you're about to have sex," he muttered awkwardly, leaning up onto his elbows to press his lips firmly against Castiel's. This would shut him up, at least, and had the added bonus of those dry, warm lips pressed against his own. And Dean could probably have found the words if he'd tried, to answer the angel's question.

But it wouldn't have been real; they would've been chick-flick, romantic and cliché words, not his words at all. And Dean had pulled that card way too many times to count in the past, just so the girl on the other end of the bar would bite and he could reel her in, and to push past nervous jitters if she hesitated later on.

None of those words would've been honest because he'd never meant them, so when he finally pulled away, panting, to stare hazily at Cas, he shook his head and released a strained chuckle. Castiel's lips were kiss-swollen and really no longer dry, his hair was mussed all to hell and his eyes looked more pupil than anything. He looked debauched, about as far from an angel as Dean figured anyone could look while still pulling off that unearthly thing he'd never really managed to lose.

"You," he finally growled, wrapping his hands low against Castiel's ass and pulling, slowly, until the angel slid over his lap and he could feel warmth--God, like a furnace, and fuck, that was good--pressing tight against his dick. "I just see you, okay? Now stop talking." Another kiss, this one lazy and slow and deep, ensured Cas got the point, Dean's fingers trailing up and down over the jut of hipbones and the slight bumps of ribs, his choked groan muffled against Castiel's lips.

The first kiss wasn’t that much of a surprise; the expression on Dean’s face had said he’d asked something that was weird. Not that Castiel cared that it was weird, Dean’s deflection was expected after that and his gruff comment about it not being something talked about made him smile. 

He was content with that answer though. It was a very Dean answer and he was okay with that. He groaned lowly as Dean pulled him up his lap. The second kiss was far more sensual than expected but the lazy pace of it threw him off a little.

He startled and twitched bodily when Dean trailed his fingers up his ribs. He broke the kiss and sat up, startled. The touch hadn’t hurt but it’d been strange. He shifted against Dean and looked down at Dean’s hand. “That felt… peculiar,” he said, looking up at Dean, a bit confused.

Dean knew he'd done something off the moment Cas went stock-still against him; the lazy grace of his body left as quickly as it had come, and the angel went rigid for a second before he turned that disarmingly focused gaze on Dean, then turned his eyes towards his hand. It took him a minute to fully understand, and when he did he could have laughed if they hadn't both been clearly naked and obviously heading towards something else.

Still, he grinned and tightened his fingers loosely against Castiel's side, just a few inches down from his chest, where he could freely feel ribs under his hand. "Something wrong, Cas?" he asked innocently, following the angel upwards by pushing away from the bed until he could ghost his other hand up Castiel's side, stopping just shy of the soft skin near his arm.

He waited exactly three second before flexing his fingers in a way that he knew was playing damn dirty, digging into his ribs briefly before turning downwards in a brush that he personally knew was like a freakin' jackhammer straight over the nerves. Sammy had caught him like this when they'd been younger--the little bastard--and he used to retaliate by tickling his brother until the poor kid was wheezing and gasping and near to throwing up. 

That had stopped after Sam's freakish growth spurt had left him more than capable of shoving Dean off and they'd both decided that tickling wasn't for grown men, especially when it started involving flailing elbows and split lips. But here, right now, Dean had the perfect excuse and he fully intended on abusing the shit out of it. He was grinning wildly now as he ducked preemptively to avoid a possible instinctual swat and slammed himself back down on the bed, hitching his hips upwards to topple Cas closer until he could grab mercilessly at his sides again.

"'Cause I gotta say, you just went rigid hard on me, and not in the good way, man," he added through a breathless chuckle.

Castiel blinked and twitched again as Dean did something entirely unfair with his fingers against his side. He stared down at Dean completely confused as to what was happening. “Wrong?” he asked, frowning and twitching away from Dean’s hands. 

“Dean, what are you doing?” He grabbed for Dean’s wrists to try and stop him from whatever it was he was doing. His brain provided a term plucked from Dean’s mind and the memories of tormenting a younger Sam, then half flailing wrestling matches when they were on more equal grounds. It wasn’t unpleasant but it was strange enough it made him want to flail and, strangely, laugh. 

“That tickles," he growled, pinning Dean’s wrists above his head and leaning down to frown in his face. His grip on Dean’s wrists was loose and Dean could probably get away if he wanted.

Dean attempted a swift evacuation when Castiel's hands went for his own; the angel, however, was pretty damned fast when he wanted to be, and Dean ended up rasping out a strained laugh as his arms were forced upwards, wrists pinned to the bed on either side of his head. He tested the hold immediately, out of habit and maybe a bit out of residual panic, and found not the usual thinly-disguised steel bear trap Cas could sometimes be but just a firm grip.

Which made him relax almost immediately and prompted him to chuckle louder. "That's kind of the point, Captain Obvious. Tickling matches," he found himself explaining, "are fun. Until somebody gets it in the eye socket, I guess, but so worth the bruises." 

Of course, the 'fun' factor was quickly being replaced by the absurd, mind-blowing hotness of finding himself pinned to the bed by a very naked angel. The serious smity face Cas was throwing him didn't do much to help matters along; in fact he found himself straining upwards in a tight arch, seeking friction even as he half-heartedly tugged against Castiel's grip.

"Winner usually," he croaked, swallowed and tried again. "Winner usually ends up doing the dishes. Or the laundry or..." A sharp buck upwards had his cock pressing firmly against Castiel's ass, the slide of flesh against the sensitive head of his dick enough to wrestle a deep groan from Dean's throat. "Or, fuck, who cares?" he whined, falling back onto the bed.

He managed to remain there for a few breathless moments, then, when it became evident Cas wasn't going to move, released a choked, growled curse of “Jesus friggin' hell, you're like the cocktease to end all cockteases” before bucking upwards firmly to dislodge the angel and slipping his hands out of the loose grasp on his wrists. He was rolling after that, pushing himself up so he could flip them both over until he ended up sprawled loosely over Castiel.

He entertained the notion of having a bit of payback fun for the pinning down--because nobody got to pin Dean Winchester down and got away with it, especially not after hell and everything else, and he'd just laid there like a goddamn girl--but by the time he was straddling Cas they were already kissing. And he could maybe admit he got lost along the road to payback a bit, distracted by lips against his and skin under his hands.

“Tickling matches?” Castiel asked with a slight smirk, tilting his head to the side. He was surprised by the way Dean went tense under him and tugged against the grip on his wrists in panic then relaxed under him. From the memories he was catching glimpses of from Dean’s thoughts, this seemed to be a normal thing. “I have never been tickled before, Dean.” 

The arch upwards against him made was something of a surprise. “As for socking you in the eye, I did that once when I was barely an angel. I’d rather not do it now.” He tilted his head to the side, then they were rolling and Dean was straddling him. 

He arched him into the kiss and found himself smirking and reaching up to mimic what Dean had done to him, hands against the hunter’s sides, following each twitch of his fingers with a swipe of his thumb over the spot. He could fight just as dirty as Dean could if it made Dean squirm, which he had to admit would be very entertaining to see. 

Dean was completely lost in the kiss--in fact, one hand was slowly but purposefully inching downwards to grab for flesh--when Castiel's hands landed against his sides and the bastard totally pulled a fast one on him. He couldn't have expected this in a million years, even though his mind supplied him with a logical 'he mirrors you, you complete idiot, stop teaching him things!' as he gasped away from Castiel's lips and arched off the bed.

Something halfway between a snort and a laugh escaped him, short and cut off because he was still gasping and trying to wriggle out of the angel's grasp. A thumb pressed against his ribs, pointedly, then the touch disappeared and ghosted over his skin again and he couldn't quite contain the barked laughter, loud and choked and and strained as it was. "You two-timing fucker, see if I teach you anything ever again!" he managed, squirming--finally, Jesus, he felt about twelve years old--out of the angel's hands.

After that, of course, the moment was gone; his dick was still hard and insistent but Dean firmly ignored it in favour of landing a solid punch to Castiel's shoulder.

This would've been hilarious with Sammy--it was, after all, the preferred way to end a good-natured argument, never mind the awkward comparison regarding the fact that he'd certainly never gone full frontal for a damned tickling match before--but as it was he only succeeded in making his hand feel a bit sore. He snorted and fell lazily back down against Castiel's side, pinning him with a look that clearly meant business.

"I swear if you ever pull that shit in public, I'm..." Dean's mind drew a blank as he thought furiously. Even making Cas sit through an entire season of TV soaps probably wouldn't make a dent in the angel's armor. "Well, just don't," he finished lamely. "I don't have to explain about bedroom things, do I?"

Almost on cue, and probably prompted by Dean's earlier breathless panting and crying out, three loud knocks resounded on the wall opposite the bed; Sammy, who'd heard whatever the hell he'd heard and drawn his own conclusions, of course. Dean reached down, grappled blindly for his boot and slung it at the wall.

After a pause, he heard Sam answer, loudly but muffled through the wall, "Jesus Christ, Dean, I'm trying to sleep, here. Could you maybe be a quieter sexual deviant, thanks?"

Dean blinked, almost got up and finally settled back down with a good-natured huff. "He always assumes the worst, I swear. I mean, that didn't sound anything like sex." And it hadn't, he knew. Possibly this should've bothered him, because, hey, there was nakedness in his bed--well, technically in Bobby's bed, though that didn't bear thinking about--and he couldn't quite seem to disentangle himself from the lazy sprawl against Cas' side to do anything about it.

“I like it when you teach me things,” Castiel said, watching with amusement as Dean squirmed away from him. He was pleased he managed to make Dean laugh. The punch to his shoulder made him chuckle lowly. His statement was true; he did enjoy it when Dean taught him human things. He’d seen the birth of mankind, but the taste of a blueberry pie was new to him. The way Dean’s lips felt when pressed against his was new.

He liked new things, and this whole thing with Dean was new. Everything from the first moment he’d seen Dean’s soul had been something new. It was something he was certain he knew and understood about his feelings; though many other things about his emotions were still confusing and new to him, this he understood. 

“I’m hardly the ‘touchy feely’ type, Dean,” he said with a slight smile and squirmed closer to Dean, making his words a lie. He was fine with the closeness and he enjoyed it even, but he wasn’t about to change anything with his behavior in public. “You have in fact spoken to me about personal space, several times. In what seemed like well rehearsed lectures.”

“Should I make the lights flicker?” he asked, looking at Dean and tilting his head. “It’ll mess with Sam more, and I know you enjoy that.”

"Yeah, you're a real Class-A cold bastard at times, Cas, though 'touchy feely' doesn't even begin to cover this," Dean muttered in answer, blissfully ignoring the fact that he was doing most of the touchy and at least a good percentage of the feely. Sam, on the other side of the wall, must've either nodded off or was studiously not listening in, so Dean counted the silence as a plus.

And then Castiel had to go and make his day with that comment, and Dean couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so close to full-on, evil witch cackling. He managed to twist upwards and shot Cas an incredulous look; jokes now, pranks even, on par with his very own Best-Of at annoying his brother. He grinned.

"Sure, make the lights go pop. I'll even throw in a throaty, roaring fake moan worthy of Ron Jeremy. But if Sammy retaliates with itching powder down your angelic boxer shorts, don't come crying to me, buddy."

He stretched, languid and loose and freaking exhausted, and if he was secretly pleased that Cas seemed perfectly content with shuffling closer he certainly didn't say a damned thing about it. "He won't even touch me, though, I got the mighty power of Nair stashed in my duffel bag and the vain little shit loves his hair too much to risk it."

After a moment he blindly reached down, grabbed the blankets and wrestled a few spare feet of thin cotton over them both, stifling a yawn against his own arm where it was curled somewhere underneath Castiel's shoulders. "And they weren't rehearsed," he slurred, because the angel was too damned perceptive for his own good.

“He’d have to catch me without my boxers on, Dean. So far the only one that’s managed to even get them off me has been you,” Castiel said, pressing closer, half tempted to manifest his wings and wrap them around Dean. “When I say, let loose that moan you promised.”

He reached out with his grace and sent the lights in Sam’s room flickering madly. “On the count of three,” he added. “And the ones after the first two were rehearsed, one, two, three.” He popped all the bulbs in Sam’s room regardless of whether or not Dean moaned or not.

“You should sleep now, Dean,” he said, pulling the blankets up over them more. He could still dimly sense the keystone and it was like an annoying itch. But until Dean drifted to sleep he would stay. Because it seemed if he was present while Dean slept, Dean slept better. That mattered to him, knowing Dean wasn’t plagued by nightmares of being pulled out of hell.

Dean pretended he didn't tense up like a damned wooden plank against Castiel's side the thought of somebody else getting the angels out of those plain, slightly threadbare boxer shorts. It'd been funny before--yes, haha, let's get the flustered angel to a brothel, it'll be loads of laughs--but, somehow, it wasn't quite as funny now. Dean knew he was a possessive bastard towards many things, his car being a shining example of his near total inability to share, but that little habit didn't usually sneak in to make an appearance in the bedroom.

The feeling wasn't uncomfortable, though, just a bit unfamiliar and worrying. He was still debating it--good thing, bad thing, stop thinking and go the fuck to sleep, Dean?--when Cas raised a hand slowly and actually glanced down at him, apparently planning to actually go through their little prank.

"Wha-? On three? And what d'you mean the ones after the first--" he babbled, raising himself up a few inches away from the bed to stare needlessly at the far wall. He wasn't sure he felt anything, no magical swoop of angelic energy, and he certainly didn't see any freaky light show. And even though Cas wasn't the kind of showman for flair that Gabriel was and he didn't snap his fingers like a bad stage magician, Dean knew it the moment Cas actually went through with it.

Probably that moan was expected of him now, but when a muffled yelp and a mortified, "Oh God, fuck my life," whispered its way over to them from the other side of the wall, Dean could barely even breathe. He collapsed back onto the bed gracelessly and dissolved into long peals of laughter, the sort of full-body guffaws that usually had him doubled over and wheezing to catch his breath.

As it was he could only flail an arm upwards over his face and wait until the laughter died down. He was beat when he finally could breathe again and rolled closer to the solid warmth that was Cas. Sammy, in the other room, almost destroyed this fragile peace by shouting, "God, I hate you both! And I swear, Dean, I'm buying you a damned ball gag!" which pretty much nullified Dean's attempts at containing his chuckling. He also spared a few thoughts for ball gags in general and angels in particular and silently admitted to himself that, yeah, he was probably going to head right back to Hell for all of this at some point.

"We are such a bad influence, Cas," he muttered sleepily as the exhaustion kicked in and he settled closer to Cas; not cuddling, definitely not, but the angel was just furiously comfortable, spreading warmth all along his limbs wherever they touched. Dean let sleep overtake him, more relaxed and comfortable than he could remember being in a really long time.

“I don’t know,” Castiel said, completely seriously about it, but pitching his voice loud enough for Sam to hear him through the wall. “A ball gag might be interesting.” Castiel tilted his head and quirked an eyebrow at Dean. He was comfortable with letting Dean slip off to sleep curled up closer to him.

Dean was a comfortable presence next to him, and if he could have slept like humans did he probably would have. He stayed curled up with Dean, quite comfortable for several hours before he knew he couldn’t prolong the simple pleasure of it. With a thought he was fully clothed and standing over Dean.

He reached down to brush his fingers over Dean’s forehead. He used his grace and pushed Dean into a slightly deeper sleep, just enough to keep the nightmares at bay. After a few moments of deep thought he manifested his wings and carefully plucked one of his more well formed feathers. He furled his wings and hid them again.

After spinning the feather between his fingers in thought for a long moment, Castiel gently laid it down on the pillow he’d been using. It was a stupid thing to do; he was handing Dean a way to enslave him and he didn’t care. He trusted Dean not to do anything to hurt him like that. So with that thought on his mind he left to go speak with his brothers in heaven.

When Dean finally woke that morning it was a slow, lazy process, as though his body remembered the previous night and hadn't yet gotten with the program despite the insistent morning wood currently pressed between his body and the mattress. He stretched, still languid and slow and lazy, and flopped over, only half expecting something that wasn't there.

Really, he shouldn't have been surprised, much less have a good morning mood ruined by freakin' teenage girl hormones when he found the bed empty. He still huffed, loudly, and muttered out a curse of 'Friggin' angels,' out of habit before his eyes finally focused enough to notice the thing on Castiel's--and, yeah, the fact that he was naming a side of the bed was a bit worthy of the slight panic that rose in his chest--pillow.

There was a feather there, which would have looked all the world like something dropped from a crow if not for the size and strange sheen. He blinked, glanced around and sat up, the bed sheets pooling at his waist as he reached for the feather. 

He'd almost expected it to buzz, or feel warm, or actually burst into flames; as it was, it seemed only like any other feather, aside from the size and the unnatural softness. He knew what it meant, of course, he wasn't stupid enough to have forgotten all they'd learned about angels in the past few days.

That was the only reason why he got up, padded over to his discarded jacket and carefully eased the feather into the inside pocket, where he was pretty damned sure it would be safe. Only after that did he stretch and eventually happened to glance out the window.

Where the sight of one particular and annoyingly familiar shape leaning against the Impala in Bobby's yard stopped his blood cold. He dressed in record time, shoving himself into jeans, shirt and boots in mere seconds and picking up the jacket to throw it over his shoulders as he thundered downstairs. 

Sammy was already up, and Dean wasn't at all surprised by the bitchy look firmly on his face when he stormed past the kitchen. 

"Dean, you utter bastard, I swear I'm going to pay you back for--"

"Crowley's outside," Dean interrupted, throwing the door open and stalking towards his car. He had a few moments with which to curse his own stupidity--he'd left most of his weapons in the damn car, again--and then Crowley was pushing away from the car with a smug look on his face and Sammy was shouldering his way towards Dean's side.

"Took you long enough, love. Thought you'd never wake from your little angel-induced sleep," Crowley said, pocketing a cell phone and nodding at Dean.

Sam hissed an angry breath in through his teeth, and if he started bitching about 'angel-induced sleep' Dean was going to slug him one, demon or no demon.

"What the hell do you want, Crowley?" Sam eventually said, much to Dean's relief.

Crowley only shrugged, a sparse, elegant movement that looked nothing if not calculated. "Nothing with you, boy. Your big brother, though, I have a few important bits of information for." The demon stepped closer, showed his empty hands, palms up, and smiled. "In fact, I have a lot of information for you, since you're obviously as clueless as you usually are. Do you know, I seem to have half the heavenly fucking host breathing down my neck, and the only shitheads I know I can rightly blame for it are you two numb nuts? I mean, really, in the category of blundering idiots blessed with stupid luck, you worms have to be worthy of some kind of award."

"Yeah? You know what the shitheads say?" Dean shot back, grabbing for his brother's arm. "You can just stay right outside here and fucking rot, because we're going back inside where you can't follow. Feel free to beat at the door like the useless fucker you are."

A cellphone, Crowley's phone, hit Dean in the chest just as he turned away. He frowned and grappled for the thing.

"Take a gander, you worthless ape. Don't bother calling me. I'll call you," Crowley said, still smiling that annoying half-smile, before adding, "And please remember that most of the birds you meet will happily try to peck your eyes out. That's birds for you; flighty little shits."

Then Crowley disappeared, soundlessly and not at all like an angel; he was there one second and the next he wasn't, leaving Dean clutching a cellphone in one hand, the other still curled around Sam's forearm.

"What the hell?" Sammy said, and Dean couldn't have agreed more.

"I fucking hate that smarmy bastard, for the record."

Both of them glanced around the yard; there was no trace of the demon, and Dean relaxed slightly and released Sammy's arm. The phone in his hand felt stupidly normal, just another run-of-the-mill smartphone, half technology and half alien useless gadget to Dean. Sam plucked it out of his hand and shuffled through the menus and dials, looking for all the world like he'd handled the exact same model a million times before.

Dean frowned. "Anything?"

There was a long pause, Sam unusually quiet at his side, and Dean eventually just snatched the phone back when all he got was a very worried frown. He stared at the phone, face slack in disbelief; on the tiny screen, looking fuzzy and blurry and lit by the weird, too-sharp light of a flash, was a picture. Of Crowley, and Castiel. Just like the one the demon had snapped of himself and Bobby.

Dean stared. Then stared some more. Opened his mouth twice and stared again, until Sam finally just reached over and tried to snatch the phone back. Dean didn’t let go of it.

"Cas," he choked, swallowed, tried again. "Cas made a friggin' deal with Crowley!"

* * *

Castiel had returned to heaven to see what he’d been missing. Azrael was surprisingly hiding among those loyal to Castiel and nursing his wounds from the fight with Raphael. It seemed that Azrael had come out on the bottom of that little scrap. Not that Castiel wanted to speak with Azrael.

He was more interested in speaking with Balthazar and Rachel. Rachel had been running things while Azrael ran around doing his thing. She was unhappy that Castiel was spending so much time on earth with ‘his’ humans and letting Azrael go unchecked. Though Azrael’s habit of disappearing seemed even more troubling than the fact that there had been a battle the night before. 

Balthazar on the other hand was frustrated because he couldn’t seem to follow Azrael when he left the host. That was worrying but there was nothing he could do about it. So the topic moved on to Gabriel. The host was still unsure how to react to the return of one of the more powerful archangels.

Gabriel, who was not present. “Hey-o boys,” the angel turned trickster turned angel said as he appeared in Bobby’s junkyard, behind the Winchesters, cheerfully munching on a bag of skittles.

Dean almost couldn't stomach the hurt-puppy look his brother sent his way when he finally managed to tear his eyes away from the cellphone. He sneered angrily, tried desperately to get the damn thing to delete the picture and finally gave up, throwing the phone over his shoulder harder than he perhaps should have.

It rebounded with a thin, sad, plastic sound somewhere behind him and slid under the belly of some unrecognizable wreck of a car, gutted and torn down. Dean figured it was an appropriate place for the phone. "Don't you fucking give me that look," he barked at his brother, shouldering his way past Sam and heading towards the door.

"I didn't even say a damned thi--Whoa!"

Sam's interrupted sentence actually had Dean pausing, and he turned around wearily only to find himself face-to-face with Gabriel. Both brothers paused, uncertain, but it was Dean who managed to spit, "Oh, you know what? I'm done with you fuckers. All of you. Done. You got something to say, blabber at somebody else."

And with that he was gone, slamming the door to Bobby's house with a sharp, resounding noise. Sam fidgeted briefly in his wake and finally sighed, turning distrustful eyes towards Gabriel. "You really suck, honestly. You'd think an archangel would have a better sense of appropriate timing," he muttered, reaching a hand up to rake it through his hair.

Inside Bobby's kitchen, Dean was fuming, and actually honest-to-God pacing. He wasn't certain of half the thoughts going through his head; a good percentage of them went 'Cas, you stupid idiot, what did you do?', but another part of him was screaming that he'd brought this upon himself. That he'd let himself fall for the easy familiarity of who Castiel was, of who he'd thought Castiel was, that he'd assumed the angel was either smart enough to know better or loyal enough never to even consider the idea.

He'd thought that Cas was theirs--his--before anything else, and that was a stupid thought to have. He'd done a lot worse than this; God knew, Sammy had done exactly this, and it had felt like betrayal of the highest magnitude. This, strangely, wasn't any easier. Just another reminder that loyalties only got you so far. Just another reminder that angels were dicks, and that all of them, without exception, kept secrets.

He couldn't even fathom what had prompted Castiel to do something this freakin' utterly foolish.

And the weight and warmth of the feather was like a damned brand inside his jacket pocket, feeling as though it could burst fire through his skin. It was a suggestion, an easy way out, a binding summon that would force Cas to actually answer to what he'd done. He shuffled forward to rest both hands on the table, struggled not to go straight for the copies of Azrael's books that he knew were hidden in Bobby's desk and forced himself to breathe as he reached into his jacket, drew out the damned feather and slammed it onto the table, hard.

"Fuck." His hands shook as he stared at the feather and thought of the cellphone. "Fuck!" he repeated.

“Huh,” Gabriel tossed a few skittles into his mouth and chewed them thoughtfully, watching Dean stomp inside, and then he shook the bag and offered Sam some. “So I take it he’s found something out about Castiel and is pissed.” 

The archangel tilted his head and looked up at Sam curiously. He toyed with the few skittles he still had in hand, rolling them between his fingers. “He’s going to do something stupid isn’t he?” he asked, tossing a few more skittles into his mouth.

Sam watched his brother stalk back inside, half tempted to follow him. For the moment, though, he was more concerned with what Gabriel, of all people, was doing here, and he figured someone had better stay behind and keep an eye on the archangel, because Sam sure as hell didn't want him running unsupervised anywhere near them.

He reached out his hand and accepted the candy more or less on automatic, then paused and looked at the skittles cautiously for a long moment before narrowing his eyes at Gabriel. "Yeah, no. I don't think I want to risk turning into a frog or something with these, thanks.”

So he stood there awkwardly, skittles melting slowly against his palm, and cleared his throat. "You never know with Dean, and..." He hesitated. Discussing the weird shit going on between Dean and Cas with Gabriel, of all people, seemed unwise at best and really, really stupid at worst. "... I guess we all just got thrown a bit of a curveba-- Wait." He frowned, dropped his hand and the candy, then shook his palm a bit to dislodge the few more melty skittles that seemed to be stuck to his skin.

"You knew about this, didn't you?"

Inside the house, Bobby stomped into the kitchen. “What’re you doin’ down here boy?” he asked, moving to pour himself a cup of coffee. His eyes strayed to the feather on the table. “Which of our feathered friends didja pluck that from?”

Dean barely looked up as the old hunter came in, focused as he was on the feather and on trying not to howl for Cas just so he could demand answers out of the guy. His hands bunched into fists against the table. "Didn't pluck it. Doesn't really matter for shit though, apparently. And it's Cas', for what it's worth."

He had no idea what that meant, now. Yesterday, things had almost made sense; today he had no idea just where the fuck he was going. He had the nagging feeling that he'd been led around by an angel--a freakin' virgin one, too--yet again. And he would've expected as much from pretty much any of the feathery bastards, but Cas? Foolishly, he'd thought Cas was different. And, if he was being honest with himself, he still thought as much, though that was now buried about a million miles deep right under the massive feeling of having been knifed in the back.

He'd never even seen it coming, that was the worst thing; he'd totally--and foolishly--let down his guard, and he hadn't seen the goddamned headlights until the freakin' train was running him over. "Doesn't matter," he repeated, pushing away from the table and letting his face go slack; if Bobby asked any more questions he'd just hit a blank wall, and Sammy could explain all of this for all he cared, because right now, Dean just couldn't.

“Knew that Castiel had a deal with that demon that he broke as soon as he had a better option? Yeah, I knew about it. I also know that that demon is slimier than normal, for a demon that is,” Gabriel said, munching happily on the skittles. “I came down to see what you mutton heads where doing about the keystones.”

The archangel rocked back on his heels absently then rolled on the balls of his feet and repeated the action a couple times. “Why’s he so pissed about Castiel working with a demon you two have worked with in the past, anyway?” 

Bobby gave Dean a long hard look. “Sure as hell looks like something matters, boy,” he said, taking a healthy drink of his coffee. “You got that betrayed look on your face again. So spill it. If our feathered friend has gone rogue I’d like to get the angel proofing done early.”

"I don't know yet, okay? I just... It looks like Cas went and got himself tangled up in one of Crowley's stupid deals and I'd like to know what the fuck happened before we all go righteous revenge on his ass," he blurted out, though that last bit was mostly aimed at himself, because he still furiously wanted to reach for the feather, for holy oil, for anything that he could use to make sense of this, the hard way.

Dean knew he wouldn't pull the circle-of-fire shit yet, not until he knew for sure what had happened; it was probably twelve kinds of stupid and likely to get him killed if he was wrong about where Castiel's loyalties now lay--God, he hoped he was wrong--but he couldn't bring himself to actually strike first.

Two years ago, he would have, even after those first few tense conversations, even after they'd failed to stop the rising of Samhain and he'd started to believe that Cas wasn't just another stuck-up, retarded bird. He was still that at times, though, clearly. No better than most of the humans he so happily distanced himself from, because he'd done the exact same stupid thing both Dean and Sam had done, the exact thing Bobby had done.

Dean wanted to understand why before he labeled the angel a traitor, before he shattered the only bit of stable support he'd known outside of Bobby and Sam, since he'd woken up gasping and clawing at dry earth. He grabbed the feather and forced himself to stuff it back inside his jacket, miraculously not crushing it as he shoved it into the pocket. "Like I said, doesn't matter. I'll talk to him. If it all goes to hell, well... You'll know," he mumbled with a faint snort, shrugging his jacket back into place over his shoulders and heading back outside.

Bobby nodded and watched Dean stuff the feather away. “If you’re gonna talk to him you’d better let him talk instead of making up your mind before you even start. Cas might be naïve but he’s always pulled through for you in the past. I’m sure he had a reason for working with Crowley. It’s not like we ain’t done the same thing,” the older hunter said reassuringly. 

Sammy was outside when Dean slammed the door behind him, speaking with--Dean almost howled in frustration--the damned trickster angel. 

"Yeah, well, it's gotten a little complicated," Sam was saying, shoulders slumped in that weird way of his when he almost seemed like he was trying to look smaller. It never really worked. "Dean and Cas, I guess you could say they've become clo--"

"What the hell? Sammy, what the hell?" Dean barked, because the trickster being here was bad enough, but Sam going all pyjama party and toenail polish with a damned archangel was nothing short of horrible. "And just what are you doing here?" he added, pointing a finger accusingly at Gabriel. "This isn't a damned supernatural motel, man. It's like everyone's just fucking stopping by today."

Gabriel snorted in amusement. “Yeah, I sort of figured that. I noticed they tend to make eyes at each other,” the angel turned trickster turned angel again said with a smirk. He listened to Dean’s little rant with all his usual energetic amusement.

“Well, I was checking in on you to find out the status of the keystone quest,” he said, rolling the now empty skittles bag up and pulling it through his fingers in boredom. “Like it or not we do need your help with this.” He’d also been following the still blazing trail Azrael had left the day before. He wanted to know what his brother was up to.


	13. Weight of a Feather

Dean gritted his teeth, silently counted to ten in his head, then backwards to zero and did it twice more for good measure, because he was pretty certain that he didn't want to break his damned hand again and punching angels was starting to feel like the sort of habit he should really avoid.

He eventually managed to just roll his eyes and huff. "Keystones, yeah. That's just going peachy. We'd managed to find exactly one of the damned thing when the rest of your family decided to crash the party. Minor setback. Anything else we should know, Gabriel? Like, oh, maybe how your other brother is working with a friggin' demon?"

His voice had risen a bit on those last words, and Sammy turned to shoot him a 'calm the fuck down' look, complete with widened eyes and curled lip. Dean took another deep breath, repeated his little breathing exercise and said, "'Cause that, to me, sounds like the kind of thing you might have mentioned the last time we met and you gave me the grand 'this is your mission and you ain't got a choice but to accept it' speech."

He tried, he honest to God did try right then to give a shit about the stones, and about Azrael and Raphael and whatever the hell was going on up there. But his mind kept spinning back, and all he could think was that Cas had either been a damned good actor or was just plain stupid. He knew--they all knew--there was no good reason to trust a demon. He couldn't imagine what could possibly be big enough that Cas would risk this, and that he'd keep his mouth shut about it.

And he needed to know what the deal had been, needed to know like yesterday, because right now he could only think that angels didn't have souls, and if the bastard had bartered with his grace, Dean was going to track Crowley down and make him eat his own balls. After a few moments he managed to focus back on Gabriel, and grimly noticed that Sammy was still staring at him like Dean was about to keel over from shock any minute now.

It was Sam--thank God for him--who broke the silence. "Got a lead on the next one; we were going to go this morning, but..."

"We're going," Dean interrupted firmly.

"Look, Dean, it's fine if--"

"We're going!" he repeated, feeling almost guilty when the frown slid over his brother's forehead. After a brief pause, he added, "Cas'll show when he does," and his voice probably came out harsher than he'd intended because Sam threw up his hands and cursed.

"Jesus, fine. Yes, stew all the way over there and back, that's a good plan."

"All my plans are good, Sammy, so shut the hell up," Dean grumbled, gesturing at Gabriel. "This good enough for you? We're hunting the stones, we'll get 'em back."

“What Castiel has done is absolutely not my business. If you want find out what happened you can ask him yourself. But don’t rage at me about something I had nothing to do with.” Gabriel snapped back, pointing a finger at Dean. “Castiel’s a big boy, I’m sure he knows what he was doing.”

The archangel looked between the brothers. “I’m going to repeat myself pointlessly here, the deal Castiel had with that demon is off. Meaning there is no longer a deal, there was one but there’s not anymore.”

“I’m not here to micromanage you two, I just wanted to make sure everything was okay.” He looked between them again. “I can see it more or less. But Dean, be careful with my little bro. If you do something stupid and hurt him, you’ll think mystery spot was just a fun vacation.” That said he vanished with a rush of air.

“Good, we don’t need babysitting,” Dean shot back stubbornly, eyes still trained on Gabriel like he expected the angel to up and pull another TV land adventure right out of his ass.

Sammy, in a miraculous bid for them both not to end up on another archangel’s list of persona non grata, managed a small, tentative smile and nodded. “We’ll figure this out, Gabriel, thanks,” he said just as the angel pulled his protective big brother act and disappeared.

Dean rounded on his brother the second Gabriel was gone, face a mask of twisted disbelief. “The hell’s wrong with you?”

“Wrong with me? Look at you, you’re acting like those emo kids you like to make fun of.”

Blinking, Dean managed a faint sneer, though it was mostly an automatic response and he knew Sammy probably saw right through it. “I’m not. That guy gets on my nerves, man. He’s…” Dean struggled to find the proper words to describe the archangel and frowned. “Twitchy. That ain’t right, a twitchy archangel.”

“Sh’yeah, well… None of the angels were exactly what we expected, remember?” Sam said, a slight smile curving at the corners of his thin lips.

“You got that right,” Dean answered, mostly under his breath, before sighing. “Let’s just get ourselves on the road and after this stone. I’m getting antsy sitting here and I don’t want to wait for another heavenly visit.”

“I can live with that. I’m going to go in, help Bobby get his sigils on and we can leave soon as the car is packed.”

“Hurry your ass, Sammy; I wanna stop on the road before it’s too late for a stack of pancakes and a coffee.”

Dean watched his brother go back inside, then turned on his heel and headed toward the car. By the time Sammy returned, he’d busied himself reorganizing his baby’s trunk into a slightly neater mess, cleaned most of his guns and was sharpening a favourite knife against a small whetstone, sitting lightly against the edge of the Impala’s open trunk. 

“We ready?” Sam demanded as he approached and dumped his laptop bag in the trunk.

“If your iPod was in that bag, damn right we are. Get in,” Dean answered, slamming the trunk closed and getting into his car. Sam rolled his eyes but followed, and the drive over to Inverness actually happened with blessed few interruptions. Dean wasn’t certain how much of a good thing that actually was, though, because amiable silence mostly meant he was free to think; and thinking was the last damn thing he wanted to be doing.

When they finally reached the motel—it was too early and still light out to go straight to the spot marked on Sammy’s map—Dean was near to vibrating with tension, and there was an unpleasant headache lingering just at the edge of his senses. They settled in for the wait, Sam shooting worried glances his way until he finally exploded and slammed a half-empty beer back on the small table near the bed he was sitting.

“Dude, what?”

“Shouldn’t we be calling Cas?” Sam asked, staring at him over the top edge of his laptop.

“You call Cas,” Dean answered petulantly, shuffling backwards onto the bed and flopping onto his side.

* * *

Castiel was irritated to the core. He’d found himself mediating arguments between the siblings he had on his side, like they were all children or something. He couldn’t believe how petty some of them where. Finally he simply gave up and left heaven. Azrael or Gabriel would have to deal with it; he didn’t have the patience to.

A thought took him to Bobby’s and Bobby sent him on to where Sam and Dean were. He didn’t make himself known right away when he found the hotel room the brothers were in, watching them for a while instead.

It confused him as to why Dean seemed so upset. Could it be because he’d left without telling him? Surely Dean understood why he’d done so. Finally, he stepped out of the invisible cloak he’d made around himself with grace and added in the typical rush of wind around the area. “I believe the term is 'my ears are burning'?” he said a bit uncertainly and looked around the room.

"Jesus, Dean, really? Gabriel already said--"

"I don't care what Gabriel said, Sam. I care that Cas has been..." Dean started, then frowned and tried to find the right way to say 'lying but not really, or maybe, because, fuck I just don't know what to think anymore and I'm not sure I want to ask' without sounding like a total, whining girl. "I just think--" he tried again, only to be interrupted by the familiar rush of air and stutter-thump of the beat of an angel's wings.

Cas was suddenly standing in the room, a strange, confused and almost shy expression on his face, and Dean was grateful, for once, that he'd stumbled over his words. "That's what happens when you flutter off in the middle of a hunt," Dean grumbled, although the sentence and accusation made about zero sense.

Sam's eyebrows shot up to meet his forehead and he sent Dean a look so full of annoyed disbelief that Dean actually coughed.

"Listen, Cas, something's happe--"

"Shut the hell up, Sam. Cas doesn't need to know about all our little human problems, does he?" Dean interrupted, all but glaring daggers at his brother. Sam gritted his teeth with a faint sneer and turned away from Dean, walking carefully around Cas to reach the door to the motel room.

"Fine, Dean. Just... Fine. I'm gonna go wait in the damn car if you're going to be like that," he said.

Dean waited for the customary 'Jerk' to indicate that Sammy wasn't actually mad, but it never came. Perfect. He had no idea why nobody else was more worried about the whole Crowley deal--lie, he knew exactly why but wasn't about to mope over it now--but he was damn well not going to let it rest.

Eventually. Because he suddenly realized he wanted to know just how far Cas was willing to take this charade, how long he'd let both he and Sammy flounder at the end of his damned angelic leash like some poor clueless monkeys.

"Sammy's grumpy, don't mind him," he all but growled as he got up and pushed away from the bed. He also carefully walked a circle around Cas, but even he could feel how absurdly tense he was, how his shoulders felt like a bar of steel. "I'm surprised your ears were the only thing burning, actually," he grumbled under his breath, hopefully too low for Castiel to notice.

After that he was at the door, standing there tensely with his head twisted slightly towards the angel. "You comin'? I'd like to get this keystone business over and freakin' done with so I can crash."

Castiel blinked and frowned something was wrong. “Dean,” he started, trying to figure out what was going on. What had he done to upset Dean? He hesitated when Dean spoke to him at the door. He could see how tense Dean was.

“Of course I’m coming. When do I ever not follow you, Dean?” he asked, moving to follow him out of the room. It was all he could do because he was too scared to read Dean’s mind and be done with it. He’d messed it all up somehow and he didn’t know how.

He settled back into the sound of the host drew that around him like a shield and divorced himself from emotion. Dean would say something about it sooner or later. He always said something. Until then Castiel would not let his worry show, he would follow Dean to the ends of the earth and back. That hadn’t changed and probably never would.

It was harder than he’d anticipated to ignore Castiel as Dean walked away towards the car and the angel followed; for one thing he had been prepared for Cas to call him on the bullshit mood right away. That would’ve been a damned relief, really, better than this slow, graceless death. It certainly didn’t help his mood that Cas apparently wanted him to remain clueless, so when he got to the car and got in he surprised both himself and Sammy with the force he used to shut the car’s door once he’d gotten in.

The slam of it was like a slap to the face, and even Sammy flinched, looking up from the passenger’s seat where he’d been sitting with his laptop open on his life.

Dean didn’t even glance at his brother and started the car, pulling out of the parking lot and heading out onto the road. “So, where we going exactly?”

Sam blinked, turned in his seat slightly to shoot Castiel an uncertain look and finally sighed. “Closest I got, from the map we made, is a place called Bogbain Adventure and Heritage Farm. It’s just a few miles down the road and… sort of a local tourist attraction. You know the kind.”

“Oh yeah, I do. Cardboard exhibits and cheery fucking tour guides. I’m sure the place’s a riot in the daytime. So sad we won’t get to see it,” Dean answered glumly, pushing the impala hard as they got into the highway, traveling way over the speed limit.

“Hey, can’t be any worse than Mystery Spot, right?” Sam asked in a pathetic attempt to lighten the mood.

“It’s already worse than Mystery Spot,” Dean answered. He bent down, reached for a tape at random and slammed it into the stereo, cranking up the volume in a way that clearly meant ‘this conversation is over, so shut the hell up until we get there’. Sammy got the point and turned back to his laptop, but not without shooting Castiel another glance, this one bordering on apologetic.

Fuck Sammy and his girly moods, Dean thought. He didn’t need public introspection over this; he needed answers, damn it, and the closer they drove to the damned farm, the more twitchy and pissed off he got. By the time they reached the place, barely fifteen minutes of awkward silence had elapsed but Dean felt about ready to shoot anybody who tried to stop them from getting the damned stone.

The place looked frightful in the dark; the barn was low and wide, standing like a massive cockroach on an empty patch of land peppered, for some reason, with unused and ancient farm equipment. It seemed every bit a calculated effort to make itself the local ghost story haunt, and Dean was surprised there wasn’t an army of teenagers daring each other to spend a night inside the damned place.

He got out of the car without a word, slammed the door again—and the fact that he couldn’t seem to care about his baby should’ve raised an alarm bell but he was too far gone to notice—and was already pulling out his gun to blow the lock on the front entrance to the barn-turned-tourist-trap when Sam stumbled by his side and made a grab for his arm.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! The hell, Dean? Don’t you think we should maybe try not to alert everyone for miles that we’re breaking and entering?” Sam said, eyes wide and unblinking.

Dean rolled his eyes, stuck his gun back into the back of his jeans and bent to get his set of lock picks and start working on the door. It creaked open at the barest touch, the latch not even closed properly.

“Huh.” Dean had to actually concentrate not to barge in blindly. “Anyone else think this is weird?” It was full darkness now, way past the opening hours for the place; there was no reason for place to be unlocked. He pushed the door further open and Sammy stepped forward to shine a flashlight inside.

The place had been ransacked. There was broken glass and upturned furniture and shelves everywhere, the barn’s boutique completely torn to shreds. 

“Great. Just great,” Dean groaned, pushing past his brother and making an angry, helpless motion with his hands. “Somebody beat us to it.”

It was Sam who turned towards Cas—because Dean was still stubbornly ignoring the angel—and asked, “Can you feel anything of the stone at all?”

Castiel got into the back of the car in silence and he kept silent the whole trip. In the fifteen minutes of silence that had elapsed Castiel had taken a step back further from his emotions and was hiding behind the emotionless veneer of Castiel, the Angel of the Lord. Cool and remote, in that place where nothing fazed him.

It took just a thought for him to get out of the car and less for him to pay any attention to Dean’s temper. He looked around the ancient barn yard remotely and ignored the brothers as they messed around with the door. Something was out there watching them. Something familiar but not as old as the touch of man on the land around them and, somehow, older still. He could sense the stone and it was close but not in the barn. 

“The stone is nearby, but it is not here,” he said, narrowing his eyes and looking over the facade of a working farm. How many times had he looked down on humanity and watched men and women breaking their backs to till the land, sow the seeds and feed themselves? This farm was old; its earth knew the touch of man and it was waiting to be worked again.

There; he could see movement on the edge of the field closest to them. Something large and not human moved back and forth. There was an equine scream and it charged into the middle of the field. Massive and black, both mount and rider, the sound the beast made was preternatural. It reared and pawed the air.

The beast’s rider was headless and armored, its head tucked under an arm. For lack of another term the horse tore at the ground and danced in place. Castiel could see one of the severed head’s eyes darting around wildly and the other was smooth and flat as stone. The horse reared and screamed again, bucking angrily as its rider jerked on the reins.

“The hell was that?” Dean called out when the first screech broke the silence. Both brothers shared a look, and then they were both rushing back outside, where Cas wasn’t alone in the clearing anymore. Dean had his gun out and pointed at the mounted figure before his brain even registered the details of the scene.

There was a headless rider out in the field, and even after everything they’d seen the image struck him as profoundly fucked up, a testament to just how weird their lives had gotten that his hand didn’t even shake around the gun as he blinked in astonishment.

“Guessing this guy’s not part of the tour, then?” he muttered, eyes fixed on the disembodied head even as the horse reared and screamed again, a shrill sound that had both Sammy and him wincing.

At his side, Sam was uncharacteristically silent, and Dean could almost see the wheels and cogs working in his brain. “Sammy? Any ideas?”

Sam shook himself, glanced at Dean and shrugged. “It has the stone, that’s all I know. Look,” he said. Dean followed the movement of Sam’s upraised hand, stared at the thing’s head and huffed out an angry curse when he realized that his brother was right. Whatever the hell this was, it had the stone alright. Had the stone wedged right into one of its eyes, pushed into flesh that looked decidedly a bit past expiration date.

And that was an understatement if Dean had ever heard one, because the head itself looked like something some talentless clay worker might have attempted, all melted and dripping and just wrong on so many levels it was barely a head at all. Sneering, Dean didn’t wait for further confirmation; he unloaded half a clip directly in the creature’s chest.

And when that did nothing except cause a series of rippling thumps into solid armor, he lowered his gun, took aim and sent one bullet directly between the two mismatched eyes of its head, which caused the one functioning eye to roll towards him in sharp focus. 

After that, things got a little insane.

Sammy took off at a dash towards the car and opened the trunk, rooting into it wildly for anything useful while flipping with one free hand in John’s battered old journal. Dean stepped back and the rider dismounted in one easy, too graceful step, blindly reached into a saddlebag with the hand not currently occupied with holding its own head and came up swinging a massive whip which Dean, if he’d had time to notice between stumbling back and ducking wildly, might have glimpsed seemed to be made of human vertebrae. 

At this point, just after the second swing, Dean’s pride and stubbornness crumbled a bit and he shouted, “Cas! Jesus Christ!” Another duck, another aborted hit, and the rider was still advancing, Dean scrambling back to keep his eyes on the thing even as he flailed out of the way of yet more swings. “What the hell is this thing?”

“It’s a dullahan,” Castiel said, reaching out to pull Dean out of range of the whip. The horse backed away from them, snorting and dancing out of range of its master and the humans. “They’re death omens and normally harmless.”

The dullahan lashed out at Castiel and Dean with the whip again. Castiel pushed Dean out of the way and caught the whip across his forearm with a grunt. He thought quickly and kept a hold of the whip. “If we get the stone out of its eye it’ll go back to its normal state,” he said, wrestling with the whip.

The thing screamed again and jerked the whip out of Castiel’s grip. It swung the whip at the angel and struck him across the chest. Castiel stumbled back and hated himself because if he killed this creature it’d be another ancient creature destroyed.

Dean scrambled back as Castiel pushed—hard—at his chest, nearly tripping over his own feet. He saw the creature land a solid hit on Castiel’s forearm, blinked stupidly for a moment at the angel’s explanation and was hollering at Sam before Cas had even finished speaking.

“Sammy! Forget the trunk! Under the backseat, baseball bat,” he hollered, stumbling closer as Sam nodded, dashed around the car and disappeared for a brief few seconds behind the door of the Impala. It was apparently long enough for the dullahan to jerk the whip out of Castiel’s grip—and how that had happened, Dean had no idea, because Cas could take a punch to the face without twitching and Dean knew those hands could be like bear traps when the angel wanted—and reach out in a massive swing which caught Cas fully across the chest.

Dean saw red, figuratively and literally, in a long, thick line that spread almost instantly across the front of Castiel’s jacket and shirt, the cotton torn in a diagonal line nearly from chest to hip. Blood roaring in his ears, he barely heard Sammy’s call of, “Dean! Here,” before he snapped his head up and saw the baseball bat flying towards him.

It was a small miracle but he managed to catch it as it came down and then he was stepping closer and swinging. Not at the thing’s back but at its arm where it was holding the head cradled still against its chest. It collided with a sickening crack and the head went tumbling out of its grasp, rolling just a couple feet. Dean was on it in seconds, though he did manage to shoot Cas a worried glance before he swung the bat again, this time downwards and with his weight behind it.

The bat smashed into the severed head and Dean would have grinned were it not for the fact that when he raised it again the head was completely unchanged, its one eye glaring up at him balefully as the mouth opened and released another loud shriek.

He heard a worrying whoosh of air behind him and ducked, not quite fast enough to fully avoid the blow; the whip caught him on the shoulder and sent him to his knees as he gasped out a pained grunt. But he was close to the damned head now, and he sent it rolling with a kick a good couple dozen feet away before he was scrambling up to his feet and twisting to avoid another blow.

“On it!” Sam shouted somewhere behind him, and Dean turned worried eyes back towards Cas, telling himself he was being stupid, that the angel was fine; that the massive gash bisecting his chest wasn’t life-threatening, was probably just a damned flesh wound to something like Castiel.

He still twitched in place unhelpfully, keeping out of range of the blows, trying to keep it occupied while Sammy hopefully got the stone pried out of the creature’s head. After a while he heard a pained yelp, loud and high and surprised, coming from his brother. Dean cursed. “Today, Sammy?”

“It fucking bit me!”

Castiel ignored the gash across his chest. It was just damage to his vessel, nothing more. “Hey!” he shouted as the Dullahan advanced on Dean, who had already taken one hit from that whip. Castiel wasn’t about allow it to land another.

It jerked around towards Castiel’s voice and swung the whip at him again. He caught it again and pulled as hard as he could. The stone was sucking his grace away and he was having trouble wrestling the creature around because the stone wasn’t affecting it. He wrapped the whip around his wrist and jerked.

The dullahan over balanced and stumbled forward, blundering into the angel. They went down in a tangle of limbs. Castiel somehow ended up pinning the thrashing dullahan down and trying not to get punched by armored fists. “Quickly if possible, Sam,” he grunted.

Dean turned, saw Castiel go down with the creature flailing and punching at him, and was advancing towards Sammy even as his brother shouted, “I’m trying, Jesus!” Sam had one hand propped against the side of the creature’s face and the other digging deep in the soft flesh around the stone, and was pulling with all his strength, grimacing as he struggled to avoid the thing’s misshapen jaws.

“Sammy, move!” Dean barked. His brother glanced up, saw him pull out his gun and dived a backwards as Dean emptied the rest of his clip in the prone head. Every bullet hit the mark but one, which buried itself at an angle in the dirt. Bits of soft flesh went flying and as soon as the clip was empty Sam was reaching forward again for the mangled face; the stone hadn’t quite been pried loose but now he had something to tug on, though his fingers slipped twice before he managed to tear the stone away with a triumphant groan.

Sam got to his feet quickly but Dean was already rushing back, sliding another clip into his gun as he stalked towards the creature. And back towards Cas, who was still pinning the thing down, though it was clearly no longer necessary. The dullahan had sagged into a boneless heap the second the stone had been wrenched free and was now more or less just laying there, not actually ganked but not exactly fighting anymore either.

Dean grudgingly pocketed his gun again and almost—stupidly—reached a hand down to help Castiel up. He checked himself just in time, though the awkward twitch of his arm was probably obvious to all present. Or at least to Sam, because Dean still wasn’t sure what to make of Cas anymore. “What’d we do with him, then?” he said wearily, nodding at the barely twitching creature. 

The head, at least, had stopped screeching, so that was a small mercy; his ears were still ringing. When it became clear that the dullahan wasn’t going to be getting up for another round, Dean reached his right hand up and fingered the wound on his shoulder gingerly; now that he was no longer moving, it was starting to throb and ache like a bitch.

“You alright?” Sammy asked, fidgeting nervously at his side, one hand clasped loosely around the stone, as though he expected another snap of teeth any second.

“I’m fine. How’s your love bite?”

Dean grinned weakly as his brother rolled his eyes. “Oh, haha. It’s fine, thanks.”

After a second, because he couldn’t leave well enough alone, Dean asked, “Cas, you uh…” He gestured helplessly at his own chest and tried not to focus on the dark stain that was the entire front of the angel’s very rumpled suit. “Gonna be okay there, man?”

Castiel stood up carefully and dusted himself off. “I’m fine. It’s going to get up, let it have its head and it’ll go.” He was breathing heavily but a thought had the wound on his chest healed and his clothing fixed.

After a moment the duhallan’s body twitched and staggered to its feet. The head was slowly healing itself and by the time its body picked it up it was more or less whole again. Two wide eyes darted around, looking at the group of them as the duhallan walked slowly to pick up its whip as well.

Within moments it had remounted and was galloping away from them. Castiel watched it go before looking at Dean. He reached out and gripped his shoulder healing his wound. It was more of a drain than normal and his knees went to jelly. He didn’t fall but he stumbled back a few steps and looked at the stone.

“I have to get away from here. The keystone is sucking up my grace. Call me if you have any more need of me,” he said, looking between the brothers and with a rush of air he left.

“Let it have its head?” Sam repeated uncertainly, eyes flickering between Dean, Castiel and the creature as it lurched to its feet and went, somehow, straight for the mass of flesh that passed for its head. 

Dean sneered. “Oh, come on, we’re just gonna let it run? It whips people with a… thing made of human spines!” he grumbled. But by the time he was ready to turn and formulate a plan to gank something they’d never even heard of before, Cas was at his side and slapping a hand against his shoulder. It stung fiercely, and the pull of something fizzing like electricity against his skin and the heady throb of pain of it brought back memories he really wasn’t sure he could deal with right now.

He buried them firmly; he didn’t need another reminder of what was already on his shoulder and would probably never fade.

The rider was already gone; he deflated slightly, only to tense right back up when Castiel up and disappeared. Again.

Anger flared, sudden and bright, in his chest. “Call you if we have need of—Freakin’ hell, Cas. Fuck you too,” he grumbled into empty air.

Sammy shot him an exasperated look. “He’s always like that. Christ, Dean, get over it. And here; take the damn thing already, I… don’t particularly like these,” he said, extending a hand out and holding the stone for Dean to take.

He swiped it out of his brother’s hand, gave the clearing a once over and sighed explosively. “Fine, but just so we’re clear, I don’t like these friggin’ gemstones anymore than you do.” Dean headed back to his car, Sammy in tow, and after putting the trunk more or less back to rights and dumping the stone in amongst Dean’s various weapons and supplies they set off back towards the motel.

The anger bubbled up again as soon as they got out of the car and Dean stubbornly refused to go into the room. He told Sam he wasn’t tired yet, at which point his brother lost patience and told him to go out and get laid already.

There might have been a small explosion after that, which culminated in Dean being an ass and mentioning that he wasn’t the one addicted to having sex with supernatural creatures. This left him more or less stranded outside after Sam had shut the door firmly in his face and Dean paced around the Impala, his heart beating a jackhammer rhythm in his chest and his fists itching to land violently into something soft.

And he was ruminating, he knew, but he was quite powerless to stop it. Cas. Cas lying and making deals behind their backs. Cas going to Crowley, after everything the slimy little bastard had done. Cas zapping away, leaving them to deal with this mess his own family had gotten the ball rolling on. Again. Cas not being here so Dean could vent. Cas getting his ass hurt. And then back he went to lying and making deals, on and on in mad little circles.

Until finally, after half an hour of this, he’d had enough; he’d been lead around enough and he couldn’t stand not knowing, so he stopped pacing, kicked an unlucky vending machine which happened to be standing at the wrong place at the very wrong time and prayed.

Something like praying, anyway.

“Our Cas who art a sneaky bastard, hallowed be thy ass down here now,” he hissed, hands clenching into fists at his side.

Castiel heard Dean’s prayers and was loath to return to the sphere of influence of another keystone. He’d felt sluggish and something like mortal around it. He didn’t really like the draining weakening feeling of that, it felt like he was dying, losing his grace. 

He waited a handful of minutes trying to fight his need to flee from that feeling. But he knew he couldn’t leave whatever it was affecting Dean. He sighed and with a rustle of air he appeared a good distance from Dean.

“Are you finally going to get whatever it is that’s bothering you off your chest, Dean?” he asked softly, wishing he knew what he’d done. Everything in Dean’s posture told him that Dean was pissed. He could see how angry Dean was and he didn’t know why.

If Dean wanted to rail at him and scream he would allow it. Because if that was what Dean needed from him he would give it to him, if it meant he had to bow down and take that abuse he would. He would do whatever it took. Because Dean was important to him, and that was only slightly worrying to him. 

The slight delay between Dean’s angry little ‘prayer’ and Castiel actually appearing next to the poor vending machine only served to further anger him. He found himself fuming, wondering when the hell he’d started being on his knees for yet another inhuman creature. He knew he was being unfair, knew he was jumping to conclusions way faster and higher than he should be.

But he couldn’t stop. And when Castiel finally did show up and all he got was that goddamned angelic attitude, Dean lost it.

“Bothering me? Bothering me?” he roared, and his first reaction was to slam a fist on the side of the Impala. It left a massive, misshapen dent but Dean hardly even noticed, advancing instead on Castiel with the intent to slug him one right in the jaw. He resisted, but only because he knew it wouldn’t actually do any good.

Instead he got right up in the angel’s face, just like Cas seemed to like doing so much. “How ‘bout you tell me instead? How ‘bout you tell me what you’ve been keeping from the rest of us, huh? ‘Cause I sure as hell didn’t think you were dumb, Cas, what with all your freakin’ sanctimonious preaching about not trusting demons and not rolling over like a bitch and giving up.”

Dean supposed he should stop, really, and fucking soon before Cas decided he wasn’t worth this shit, but he was on a roll, and he couldn’t seem to stop the stream of words that was falling from his mouth. “From where I stand this sure as hell isn’t all that different from what you friggin’ beat me to a pulp for, Cas. Remember that? ‘Cause I sure do. I remember you getting all up close and personal, you bastard, about loyalty. About not letting other people throw themselves to the sharks simply because things had gone down the shitter.”

He paused, as much to let his words sink as to calm himself down, because he realized now he had both hands fisted tightly in the material of Castiel’s coat and was practically hauling the angel towards him. 

“So, again, why don’t you tell me? Why don’t you just come out and tell me, Cas? ‘Cause you certainly fucking didn’t say a damned thing before, did you?” And this time Dean did shut up, because what he wanted to say was ‘you certainly didn’t say anything when I had you in the damned shower’, and that wasn’t something he could say, not without sounding completely off his head.

Castiel knew what was bothering Dean now. He knew about his broken deal with Crowley. “Tell you what? That I lowered myself to work with a demon to spare you from getting dragged into my, as you put it, ‘heaven and hell bullshit fighting?’” he asked, grabbing a hold of Dean’s wrists and pulling them away from him. 

“Tell you that I did what you have done in the past? Picked the best choice out of a pile of shitty choices and went with it to save the people I care about most? That every time one of my brothers or sisters dies I can hear their agony before their voice is ripped out of the host’s song forever? The song I knew before I knew light, before God created this tiny planet in this part of the cosmos. That I am fighting a civil war that, regardless of if I win or lose I will likely be turned into the next Lucifer for starting?” He shoved Dean away from him and dusted off his jacket. 

“You sold your soul to bring Sam back from the dead. I don’t have a soul to sell, but yes, I made a deal with Crowley to save my family. Don’t you dare tell me that I was wrong to do what I thought was best. You tell me time and time again to think for myself and I did, and the moment when I had a better option I broke that deal with Crowley because I knew it was not the right thing for me, for you, for anyone involved except for Crowley.” 

He hated to say it but he had to. Because rolling over would do no good here. Dean would be angrier at him this way but he couldn’t back down. He could take the anger and the rage because it wasn’t healthy for Dean to internalize it.

Dean stumbled back when Castiel pushed him away—again, he couldn’t help but notice—and he watched in mounting shock as the angel went on to actually vent back, in what was probably the longest string of words he’d ever heard come out of Cas’ mouth. The air quotes, already familiar as one of Castiel’s little ‘human’ quirks, fell into place like lead slabs in Dean’s guts.

The mention of Sam, though, blew any and all calm out of the water. He reached out as soon as Castiel had finished speaking and grabbed him by the lapels of his coat again, only this time he didn’t stop. He pulled, as hard as he could, twisted around and shoved Castiel back against the nearest available thing, which just happened to be the hood of the Impala behind him. 

The car’s suspension actually protested under the weight, because Dean followed, unwilling or unable to let go of the damned coat, and leaned forward until the angel was crowded against the car. 

“You fucker! It’s not the same thing because you’re not me, okay? You don’t get to pull this shit behind our backs and you don’t get to run off to Crowley in secret and not say a damn thing about it because how can I—how can we trust you, then, huh?” Dean almost cursed himself at the slip but he war too far gone to stop now.

He pulled Castiel up slightly away from the car and ploughed on, like a freakin’ train hitting a brick wall. “Sammy knew! Sammy found out and he tried to help and I fought him tooth and nail and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. But you… You don’t even open your trap, you just disappear and you don’t say a damn word and we’re floundering like assholes down here and you won’t let us help!”

Dean was aware he was shouting now, and that they were still outside the friggin’ motel and that Sam could probably hear every word at this point, but it was a dim knowledge, totally obliterated in the wake of his fury. “That ain’t how it works. That’s fucking not how it works, because you might be willing to roll over and die for your goddamned brothers but I don’t let my fucking family run off to make deals with demons!”

And that was it really, he realized as he nearly spat the words right into Castiel’s face; he’d lost his mother and father to Azazel, and he’d almost lost Sammy to that bitch Ruby. He’d die before watching it happen again. The fact that he’d just blurted all of this out, when he hadn’t even been certain why he was angry in the first place, settled like a lump of cold ice in his throat and he hissed, eyes widening in shock.

It was fear, churning in his gut, but it wouldn’t come out as such, like he could only spew it out with angry venom instead of actually getting the words out right.

“There was nothing you could do to help, Dean. Nothing,” Castiel said, staring up at Dean. “I didn’t see the point in worrying you and dragging you back to a life you fought to leave. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that I was working with Crowley, okay? I was doing what I thought was best.”

“I would not, could not drag you into something that might end with you dead, Dean. You deserve better than that. That doesn’t change the fact that my family is still tearing itself apart and I can do nothing to stop it.” Castiel reached up to grip both of Dean’s shoulders, trying find the words for the profound sense of loss every death of an angel caused. 

“I didn’t want to make the deal, why do think I’m working with Azrael instead? You’ve seen how Azrael behaves, Dean. I was there about to ask you for help again, right after Sam jumped into the pit, and I couldn’t. Because I didn’t want to hurt you again, to take something else away from you.” He sighed and contemplated simply leaving because he didn’t have to stay. 

Finally he swallowed and thumped his head against the hood of the Impala. “I didn’t want to have to see Raphael kill you. I still don’t want to see you die, Dean,” he said quietly, looking up at the sky.

Dean paused, frozen with his hands still fisted in Castiel’s trench coat, the worry and venomous anger swirling like blood behind his eyes. But it was diffusing now, changing in a completely worrying way, and what settled in its place was maybe even worse. By the time Cas had finished speaking and slumped back against the hood of the car, Dean was panting, struggling to make sense of it all.

“You don’t… You can’t… This is what we do, Cas. And yeah, sometimes it goes to shit real fast, but you can’t just run off and… Fuck, we all did some pretty spectacularly stupid things over the years, but if you freakin’ insist on doing ‘em all at once and all on your own you’re going to get yourself killed,” he hissed, before forcing one hand—it was shaking, he realized—away from Castiel’s chest to reach up and dig into the inner pocket of his jacket.

When he drew it out again he was holding the feather he’d found on his pillow in Bobby’s spare bedroom; it wasn’t even the least bit rumpled despite the time it’d spent crushed under his clothes. He slapped it firmly onto Castiel’s chest, leaning closer over him.

“You can’t have it both ways, Cas. You can’t say you trust us one minute and then decide it only works sometimes. Or when you damn well feel like it.” The anger was still there, hovering just under the surface, and it boiled over again as he added, “You fucking told me you had faith in me, once. So either stop being a pussy about it and start trusting that I won’t fuck myself over simply because I can or stop… stop leading me on, damn you!”

And that was the last, virulent bubble of it bursting, that ever-present anger that, for all of his pretty words, Cas was probably just playing him like a damned fiddle. Once that was out and gone Dean found himself staring dully back down at the angel, feeling oddly empty now that he’d more or less said his piece. There was a lot about Castiel’s words that he had to ignore or else go mad; it fact he pretty much had to ignore everything that had just been said, had to erase it somehow.

So he did so the only way he knew how; he pressed closer and sealed his own brand of deal, crushing his lips against Castiel’s in a kiss than was nearly more open-mouthed bite than actual kiss, the feather still pressed tightly between his hand and the angel’s chest. He hoped to God that this would explain, would say, in plain, silent words, what he couldn’t force past his throat. ‘I can’t acknowledge anything I just said but this is true’, like a mantra in his mind as he clutched at the angel and groaned against his lips.

Castiel stared at the feather he’d left for Dean and tensed when it slapped against his chest. “I’m not, Dean, I’m not leading you on,” he whispered. “I just want to protect you, I don’t want to have to watch you die before my eyes simply because you were helping me.”

That statement was half a lie. Castiel didn’t want to watch Dean die period, didn’t want to see him grow old and die without him being there. That scared the angel a bit and confused him; Dean was human, had always been human, and he couldn’t stop him from dying. 

He hadn’t expected the kiss but he responded to it by arching up against Dean and kissing him back. “If I didn’t trust you, why would I have given you something that you can use to bind me?” he asked when they broke the kiss. He reached between them and tugged the feather out from under Dean’s hand. “Do you know what could happen if someone like Crowley or one of the fallen got a hold of this, Dean?”

His head swimming, Dean pulled away only to be caught--freaking pinned, really, as usually happened--by Castiel's eyes as the angel stared at him in that unflinching, too-intense way of his. It was uncomfortable now precisely because Dean wasn't sure what Cas could read in his face, never mind the rest of him if he angel decided to go all introspection on his soul, or brain, or whatever the hell it was that he tended to do.

The feather was plucked from his unresisting fingers and he stared at it dumbly for a moment; this was absurd, all of it. He couldn't even remember why he was angry, didn't understand where half the things he'd said had come from and he had no idea at all how they'd ended up like this, pressed against each other on the hood of his damned car, out in plain sight of anyone who happened to pass by.

He shook his head, tearing his eyes away from the glossy black feather and forcing himself to meet Castiel's eyes; they hit him like a bucket of ice water, real and vibrant even where they were so freakin' far from human they might as well be alien. "Cas, I... I don't need or want a gesture that puts your ass on the line. I mean, it's pretty badass, as far as feathers go, yeah. And I understand why, I mean, God knows I've pulled the meaningful gift card out of my ass often enough, when I couldn't... you know, do anything more."

He grew serious again, because there'd been a faint smile tugging at his lips. "But you gotta understand, Cas, me and Sammy and Bobby? We can't function on gestures. You've helped me too many times to count; that's real." He grabbed for Castiel's wrist and pulled it up, forcing the feather up between their faces. "This? This is risky and foolish and I don't need mementos and gifts and shit just as long as you don't get yourself smeared like a chalk outline with charcoal wings on some bit of heavenly pavement, man."

And more than anything, right now, he wanted the feather gone; he knew this wasn't the sort of gift you gave back though, so instead he pushed Castiel's wrist away and pulled him up again, and this time when their lips met Dean knew there was a sort of desperation in it. 

He couldn't stomach this conversation anymore, and though the red haze of his anger had disappeared his kiss still turned violent the second he let his control waver; he forgot about the damned feather, forgot about his hand clenched in the coat and just grabbed at whatever solid bit of flesh he could find, sliding Castiel along the Impala's hood until he was pressed chest to thighs against the solid warmth of the angel.

Castiel slipped the feather back into the inside pocket of Dean’s jacket and leaned up into the kiss. How could he not? Dean was like gravity and he couldn’t fight it if he wanted to. He wanted to say that he didn’t care how Bobby and Sam functioned, only that Dean trusted him and understood why.

All he could do was ride the desperate rush of something that seemed to be pushing Dean along this path. He spread his legs and let Dean slide between them and pulled him closer. “Tell me what to do, Dean,” he breathed when they broke the kiss. “Tell me how to make this right. Please,” he asked, deciding to simply give Dean whatever he wanted instead of fighting him.

It would be easier to let Dean have his way and pretend he agreed even if he didn’t agree completely. Castiel could handle not being right if it made things with Dean better.

When Castiel's lips eventually left his, Dean was dizzy with it; the sudden loss of touch and taste was a palpable thing, and he actually had to bite down on the strangled, pathetic sort of noise that seemed to have taken residence in his throat. He glanced down, found that Cas had actually parted his legs and that they were pressed against each other in a way that left little doubt in Dean's mind where they headed.

On the Impala's hood, in a public parking lot in plain view of the window into the motel room Sammy was in. This was totally freakin' insane, it was asking to get arrested, it was fucking flirting with the possible disaster of his brother walking in--or out, as it were--on shit even Dean wasn't entirely sure about at this point.

But Cas was there, he was warm, and when he finally spoke his voice was a low rasp, breathless when Dean wasn't even sure that angels and requiring oxygen went hand in hand. And he was open, warm and pliant and asking for this, staring up at him with those freakin' too open and too telling eyes and Dean didn't have the guts to tell him that that wasn't the sort of look you were supposed to send someone after a kiss like that.

Then again, he was probably the worst possible role model for this sort of shit, so he supposed that was a good thing. Somehow, in between the kiss and the press of Castiel's pelvis against his--or before, Dean hadn't noticed--, the feather had disappeared and with it the last of Dean's hesitations.

"Just promise me you won't run and do something this stupid again on your own, because if you do I'm gonna hunt you down and beat twelve kinds of ever-loving crap outta you even if I have to break every single bone in my hands, Cas," he hissed back, voice breathy and strained, the Kansas drawl thick like cotton wool in his mouth. It wasn't what he meant, what he'd meant to say, but, and this he realized at the same time as he realized his hands were feverishly slipping the belt at Castiel's hips out of his pants, it was true enough.

And he needed that reassurance that Cas wasn't going to fuck off and get himself killed out of some stupid sense of wanting to keep him safe. Because he'd seen other angels dead, he'd killed other angels himself, but losing Cas was something he wasn't sure he could survive without losing whatever was left of his sanity. And that was a dwindling thing, really, because now he was leaning closer again to bury his face in the side of Castiel's throat and it was greedy and disgusting but he shook with the want, the need, to bite and mark and claim in a way that wouldn't be gone as soon as the bruises would fade.

"Just promise me, Cas," he repeated, and his words were lost somewhere against skin and buried under warmth.

Castiel tilted his head back and let out a low moan as Dean's lips worked against his skin. “I’ll promise you that, Dean. As long as you do the same.” He wasn’t fighting fair, demanding that sort of promise but he knew Dean would keep his word if he could be convinced to give it. 

Dean’s weight was pleasantly warm against him and all he wanted was to touch skin. “Dean please, we won’t be seen,” he murmured, sliding a hand up under Dean’s shirt and trailing his fingers over the skin he found there. He wrapped them both in his grace and shielded them from unwanted sight. He didn’t want to be interrupted by the ridiculous human concepts of law enforcement and public decency.

He pushed his hand up further along Dean’s chest and found himself tracing over Dean’s ribs. He wasn’t entirely sure how this would work when pressed up against a car. But he had no doubt that Dean knew.

The belt went slipping through Dean's fingers and onto the pavement when his lips and teeth closed over the slightly prickly skin just at the edge of Castiel's jaw. He clearly wasn't doing this right, though, because the angel could actually still speak, and he was quickly learning that the best--really, the only way--to do this was to first make sure Cas was too breathless and dizzy to talk.

Because the perceptive little bastard had a tendency to say shit Dean didn't want to hear, especially not when his brain was happily riding shotgun and his dick was calling the shots. He frowned, bit down on the soft flesh of Cas' neck in useless retaliation and sucked in a harsh breath.

"You sly fucker, I thought..." He paused for a moment, distracted by the extremely important task of getting a few layers of tax accountant gear out of his way. "I thought you didn't do conniving and duplicity," he growled, and that was a low blow, he knew, but brain riding shotgun also meant that this was his gut--Dean wouldn't go as far as shifting that perception a couple inches higher and calling it heart--speaking, and his gut was apparently still pissed at the whole Crowley thing.

But really, what difference would a promise like that make? The one time he'd actually succeeded in going behind everyone's backs he'd ended up in hell. When he'd tried again, Sammy had found him in a matter of hours, words had been exchanged and he'd ended up locked in the panic room. And then, later, he'd pulled a sigil--which he still hadn't quite apologized for--on the angel and gotten his ass spectacularly kicked for his troubles.

Dean was fairly certain a repeat of that attempt would likely end the same way. "Fine," he hissed, just as a hand slipped under his shirt, burning like a brand against his skin. "Fine, I promise." He wasn't sure how much of that promise was driven by the urgency of wanting Castiel naked and writhing underneath him right now, but he'd just given his word. It would probably come back to bite him in the ass later, but as warmth and a weird sense of safety wrapped around him, he didn't quite care.

He realized Cas had just done something mojo-y when the angel next spoke and assured him they wouldn't be seen, though that particular concern had been far, far, far away and dismissed in the back of his mind as unimportant quite some time ago. He pushed his hips against Castiel's in a slow, burning, still-clothed grind that nearly made him see stars. 

"This an acceptable use of your angel superpowers, Cas? Hiding what we're doing from people who might see us?" he groaned, reaching up to get rid of his jacket, before sliding his hands down to grab the back of the angel's thighs and slide him across the hood of the car, up and closer to him until he felt the heat of Cas' trapped erection slotting against the groove of his hip even through linen and jeans.

Castiel groaned low in his throat and shrugged out of both of his jackets when Dean pushed them off his shoulders. “Considering I use my powers most to protect you, Dean. Yes, this is an acceptable use of my grace,” he muttered back, struggling to get his arms out of his jackets and reaching up to pull Dean closer.

“Unless you’d rather risk us getting caught like this.” He canted his hips up against Dean’s, grinding against him readily. He dragged his lips across Dean’s jaw experimentally, attempting something like the nibbling Dean liked to do to him. “Not that I really mind either way,” he added with a slight chuckle when his lips found Dean’s ear. 

He could have suggested taking them elsewhere but he was far more interested the way their hips where pressed together and the very pleasant pressure of grinding against Dean. Experimentally he licked Dean’s ear lobe and dragged his teeth lightly over the same path his tongue had taken.

"Not that you'd mind either...?--Jesus fucking Christ, Cas," Dean stuttered, jaw clicking shut as Castiel's lips--and, yeah, he had to admit to being a little obsessed with those, because he actually had to fight to keep his hands on the angel's thighs in order to avoid reaching up to try and slip his fingers past those lips--closed around his earlobe. He shivered, a full-body thing that had him groaning and clutching up Cas' legs until he managed to close trembling, hurried fingers on the fastenings of those suddenly hated pants.

"Got no idea what happened between that brothel over in Maine and this right here," he groaned, digging fingers into the waistband of Castiel's slacks and pulling, hard enough that whatever weight of angel sitting on the hood of his car didn't so much as cause a delay when he slid them down and past Castiel's hips. "But I ain't complaining."

Dean had to pull away, just out of range of Cas' distracting mouth--he kept forgetting about the very unfair learning curve there, how everything he did apparently got mirrored back to him with all of Castiel's usual intensity--so he could concentrate on popping open the button on his own jeans. He struggled a bit in his haste with the zipper, then pushed both his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his--friggin' hell, aching, and he had no idea why every time they ended up like this it was always so damned intense that all his carefully-controlled suave evaporated--cock.

After that it was a matter of a few fumbling seconds to get rid of Castiel's underwear, pulling it out of his way with a strained groan, and finally, finally, there was a slow, delicious and electrifying glide of skin against skin as he tugged Cas closer again. He kept it just under the familiar edge of teasing, enough friction to light up his nerves but not quite enough to climb upwards, snaking one hand down to grasp them both loosely in a closed fist.

"Been... wanting this since we showered," he hissed, staring hazily at Castiel's lips as he rocked his hips slowly against him, dragging his thumb lightly over the head of first his, then Cas' cock. And because it was true and he knew he'd never in a million years manage to dig up enough willpower to actually survive Castiel's lips around him without falling to pieces in three seconds flat right now, Dean did the next best thing; he reached up with his free hand, hips still pumping lazily against the shocking warmth of the angel's body, and pressed his thumb lightly against those lips. 

He resisted for all of a few mad seconds before he was gliding the tips of two fingers against them, pupils blown wide and dark as he heard himself growl, "Cas... Fuck... Cas, open your mouth and suck."

“The difference between that den of iniquity and here is huge, Dean,” Castiel almost growled in reply, lifting his hips when Dean pulled on his pants. The angel leaned back on the Impala’s hood and watched avidly as his pants were removed and even more so when Dean removed his own pants.

For a moment he was lost in the simple teasing sensation of Dean’s hand and prick against his. It made him shiver and try to fight down a needy little noise that was followed by a stunted jerk of his hips. He’d watched humanity since his Father had created them. He’d seen them in the middle of intimate moments like this before and had never understood any of it until this moment. 

He was confused by the fingers pressing against his lips and the harsh demand that he suck at first. He stared at Dean for a moment, his eyes wide and confused, until the memory of Dean’s very active imagination surfaced, and he remembered the way it’d painted him with Dean’s member in his mouth, sucking. 

What fingers had to do with that he wasn’t sure, but he parted his lips obediently and let his tongue flick out over the pads of the offered fingers experimentally. Getting his mind wrapped around the idea of sucking on Dean’s fingers was odd but that didn’t stop Castiel from trying it. He teased his tongue along each digit, experimenting with little flicks and twists, all the way watching Dean’s face closely. 

This was all before carefully wrapping his lips around them and sucking lightly. It was hard to maneuver his tongue over Dean’s fingers with his mouth around them but Castiel was not prone to giving up so easily, and he knew how to twist his tongue around the shapes of every word in every language heaven, hell or earth had ever birthed. He was keen to see what each specific twist and undulation of his tongue would cause Dean to do.

Dean stopped the grinding, rocking movements of his hips when Castiel's lips parted and a pink, wet and warm tongue slid almost teasingly out of his mouth to lap and lick at his fingers. He stared, biting down lightly on his lower lip in a sort of weird, mirrored sympathy, following the movements of that tongue as it teased over his fingers in a way he really wouldn't have imagined without some massive prompting on the part of reality.

That Cas could go from terrified virgin who shrank at the thought of a pair of breasts to this utterly debauched creature went a little above and beyond Dean's admittedly very wild imagination.

And thirty seconds later he had to stop the lazy grind altogether and furiously wrestle his hand away from their flesh to tighten his fist firmly around the base of his cock, because Cas just parted his lips further, sucked Dean's fingers into his mouth and freakin' went to town like a goddamn pro. His mind easily replaced fingers with dick--another mighty squeeze, right there--and he actually heard himself utter a sound so damned close to a whine it shocked even him.

Dean cleared his throat but didn't pull his fingers away just yet, even as he practically felt his cock twitching impatiently; he managed a smirk he really couldn't back--because right now he'd be hard put to remember his own name if anyone asked him, and he wasn't even certain he'd last long enough to put all that glorious finger sucking to good use--and made the utterly stupid mistake of glancing up at Cas' eyes.

Which were trained on his face, Castiel staring back at him with the most intense, calculating expression he'd seen yet, as though the angel had been gauging his reaction all this time. "Oh, you kinky, sly bastard," he growled, blinking hazily as he ever so slowly let his fingers slip free from Castiel's mouth. "You know exactly what you're doing, don't you?"

Pride, and a growing desire to see Cas totally wrecked, a perverse, base and disgusting urge to feel him grounded in the humanity he tended to think he should distance himself from, made Dean want to see Castiel lose it completely again. Made him want to wrestle sudden exploding lights, or rippling wings, or--even better--some real sounds out of Cas. He leaned back, regretting the loss of contact and the warmth almost immediately, and skirted his very wet hand down between Castiel's legs, pushing at one pale thigh with his knee until he could press upward against even better warmth, fingers skimming and circling once around Cas' entrance.

He should probably have stopped about half an hour ago; because fucking in one sleazy motel when under the influence of whatever unnatural shit had sauntered into their lives and a few quick, rushed hand jobs--the shower was a grey zone in Dean's mind at this point, since he could almost slot it into a category known as 'relaxing because they'd earned it'--were one thing, but this was something else entirely. And that fact was driven home quite clearly by the wretched, wanting groan that was wrenched from him when he finally sank two fingers into Castiel's body.

The heat, of course, nearly floored him; but it was the singularly strange way the angel almost seemed to swallow him whole that almost had his knees buckling. There was no halting, uncertain tensing, just tight warmth that drew him in until he was knuckles deep and shaking, dragging his fingers out slowly until he could draw breath again and repeat the motion.

"S'this what you want, Cas? Why you went... Fuck... Jedi mind tricks to hide us?" he asked, half of his words mangled and drawled. Another slow thrust of his hand, a twist of his wrist, and he'd somehow managed to fit three fingers into Castiel's body now, the glide tighter and glorious but not, amazingly, uncomfortable or impossible.

The sound Dean made went straight to Castiel’s cock. It was a startling reaction for him that had him groaning around Dean’s fingers. He opened his mouth to sneak his tongue out for a parting lap at Dean’s retreating fingers and found himself smirking at Dean’s growled accusation. “Angels can speak every language that heaven, hell, or earth has ever come up with, Dean,” he murmured back. “I am quite adept at using my tongue.”

It wasn’t exactly a boast because it was completely true, and any other angel could say the same thing. His train of thought sputtered out when Dean’s moist fingers teased his entrance. Oh, so that was the purpose of the finger sucking; other than to drag attractive sounds out of Dean.

He arched back against Dean’s hand and stared up into Dean’s face. “Want?” he asked a bit dimly, of course he wanted this. Why would he be letting Dean doing this if he didn’t want it? He blinked for a moment. “Of course I want this, Dean.” Castiel leaned forward and caught Dean’s lips in a very insistent kiss.

Forcing himself away from the unfamiliar and ever so inviting heat of Castiel should've been harder, ultimately, than it turned out to be. But Dean didn't have much time to react; Cas twisted under his hands like the world's biggest, most decidedly unangelic cat and suddenly he was groaning around a mouthful of Cas. And it was wild, nothing like the kisses they'd shared previously because Cas wasn't just letting him kiss him, this time.

This time there was a tongue meshing and pushing back against his own and Dean sucked on it, letting his fingers fall free from their too comfortable exploration with a small groan that was completely buried by the frenzied kiss. 

And there was something completely unfair in the fact that he, Dean Winchester and lover extraordinaire, couldn't find it in himself to take his goddamned time with an eons-old angel who was apparently relying on him to show him the ropes of awesome, pleasurable sex. But Cas seemed to be doing his freakin' best to hurry things along too, and the fumbling of Dean's hands on Castiel's skin turned to a purposeful grip as he both pulled the angel closer and pressed against him.

There was one breathless moment as the head of his cock met and slid against Castiel's entrance, a hurried, closed fist around his flesh to align himself and then bliss. He slid into Castiel in a short, stuttered glide that felt entirely too good to be heavenly, pausing once to catch his breath as he panted a muffled curse against the angel's lips, his brain just a little too preoccupied to remember about Cas' dislike for profanity just then.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ, Cas," he muttered as he buried himself deeper. One hand unclenched from Castiel's thigh, shuffled around and slid under his leg until his elbow slotted under the angel's knee. He slammed that hand against the hood of the car, pushing upwards until the position almost looked uncomfortable but by then he was moving, sliding out almost completely before rocking back into Cas, the warm pressure exploding as a white burst of pleasure that gripped him like a too-tight fist.

"I'm gonna... hold you to that," he managed, between one thrust and the next, and the thought was so tempting even now that Dean's voice cracked on something between silent chuckling and a strained groan. "Test just... how adept... angelic tongue really is." After that, though, speaking was probably a lost cause, so he settled for burying his face into Castiel's neck, mouthing hungrily at whatever skin he could reach as his hips pumped into him, the Impala's suspension rocking under them with rhythmic, loud metallic squeaks.

Castiel groaned lowly as Dean broke the kiss and simply pulled him into a better position. He braced himself against the hood of the Impala and rocked his hips back against Dean when the man slid into him. He shifted under Dean and hooked the leg not pushed up around his hip.

“Dean,” he gritted out with a thick sound deep in his throat. He still wasn’t used to this, to being filled up past what should have been the limit of his vessel, but it felt fantastic. “There are… many things I’d like to show you, not just my—…” He gasped and arched up against Dean, desperately seeking more pressure. “Talented tongue.”

Dean made him want to prove that there was something good waiting for Dean in the future. Made him want to want to be there beside him the whole time to watch Dean fix fractures in his very being that Castiel saw forming from all the pressure and discover that he had deserved to be saved.

Sparing enough brain cells to actually listen to what Cas was saying instead of simply concentrating on the noises—God, the noises, there had to be a law against deriving so much pleasure from hearing an angel go all hardcore porn underneath him—was a damned challenge. Dean pulled himself away from the skin under his lips with great difficulty, focusing hazily on Castiel’s face—more emotion there that he’d seen in a while, warring between pleasure and that weird intensity Dean usually dismissed—and on the way the angel seemed to surge up into every thrust.

It was breathtaking and hot as hell, and Dean’s voice broke on the next shove and slide into his body, because Castiel’s leg pulled him closer and he arched upwards, a long, sinuous line of flesh and muscle drawing him in until his stomach was pressed tight against Castiel’s cock between them. “Yeah? I think… I think,” he stuttered breathlessly, pushing himself up so he could grab Castiel’s thigh properly, his other hand slotting around the hard flesh in front of him.

“I think you’re showing me plenty already, Cas.” He’d tried for smug but he was pretty certain it didn’t come across as such, because he was moving in earnest now, pumping his hips in a fast, relentless rhythm and sliding his closed fist around Castiel’s cock. Even with the knowledge of whatever mojo Cas had put around them, he glanced around quickly once. 

It wasn’t real, but the very public location only made this about ten times hotter, and he wondered dimly if the mojo extended to sounds. He was grunting now with every twitch-fuck into tight heat, and completely drunk on whatever noises he could wring out of Castiel’s throat. Somehow, in between a muttered litany of filthy shit—‘Fuck, fuck, Cas, y’feel so good, shit, more, I want so bad to hear you scream, feathers’—and an endless stream of Castiel’s name, he managed to spare a thought for his poor Impala, who’d suffered through this stuff countless times before but never quite like this.

He’d never, shocker, ridden an angel bareback against her hood before. He figured this had to count as the single hottest thing he’d ever done either in, or on, or against the car. 

When he looked up again though, he found himself not quite able to meet Castiel’s eyes, because he was flying about a thousand miles up right now and he wasn’t sure he could face whatever he would find in there. That, and his head was swimming now, a white hot ball of need tightening in his gut and if he didn’t come soon he was pretty sure he was likely to rupture an artery or something. So he pressed closer, hips still jackhammering inside the angel in an uneven rhythm, and dragged his thumb lightly over the head of Cas’ dick in his hand before pumping him quickly.

“Castiel,” he groaned out, shivered, tried again. “Cas, come on. Lemme see you, man.” And Dean buried the rest of his words against Castiel’s lips, because he was liable to say something incredibly stupid if he didn’t.

Castiel found himself grabbing for Dean’s shoulder blindly, his hand slotting up against the mark he’d left there and squeezing. He was rushing for that strange peek and sudden plummet after climax. It was confusingly similar to fighting or flying in ways he hadn’t anticipated; the realization amazed and sort of terrified him.

Visceral sensations had always been confusing for him, even before he’d ended up entangled with Dean. They were dulled by his vessel so what he felt wasn’t as acute as it could have been. That didn’t stop him from choking down an all together too loud sound when Dean’s hand closed around his dick and started stroking him mercilessly.

He would have tried to reply to Dean but before he could manage to string together the words Dean called him by his Name. Not one of the various nicknames he’d given him over the years, but his true and full Name. Names had power for angels and to hear Dean groan it out and go on to urge him over that edge sent heat blossoming through him and sent his nerves, both borrowed and his own, afire. With a choked sound he shattered. There was no scream, though he bucked up against Dean and arched back as if he was going to howl while spilling himself over Dean’s hand.

The lights around them shattered in showers of sparks and glass as he once again lost control of his grace and it played fast and loose with the power. He choked out something unintelligible and couldn’t quite make the mental connection required to fix his mess just yet.

Dean barely had time to brace himself; one second he was nudging Castiel’s lips apart with his own, his hand still pumping around his cock, and the next Cas was arching back, ripping free from the kiss and jerking as though Dean’d just fed a live wire through him. He stared, a rising groan building in his throat, as Cas bucked underneath him, mouth open in a silent howl, his entire body going rigid for a few blessed, glorious seconds.

Warmth, wet and shocking in its humanness, spread over Dean’s hand even as Castiel locked tight around him, clamping down hard on Dean’s flesh. Thrusting was practically impossible until Cas slumped back down, but by then it was already way, way too late. Dean was bowing tight over him, both hands now clutching Castiel’s slim hips; he took one look at the angel’s totally blissed-out face and that was it, show over, nothing more to see here.

He groaned out Castiel’s name again—Cas, just Cas, because once he’d said it he couldn’t stop and it was shorter, quicker—and shuddered, spilling with a choked cry inside the angel until he was utterly spent, unable to summon enough willpower to even raise his forehead from Castiel’s chest.

They were, both of them, sticky, and Dean’s forehead was clammy with sweat. He was panting like it was going out of fashion, like he’d just run a damned marathon and hadn’t known when to stop. Dazed, he only then noticed that all the streetlights had somehow been blasted to bits some time in the previous few seconds and that there was broken glass and sad bits of electrical wiring all over the parking lot except for on the car itself, which was strangely free of any debris. He noticed all of this with the sharp clarity that sometimes accompanied his post-orgasm bliss, every detail too sharp and clear, up to and including the way Castiel’s body was now pliant and warm and loose underneath his.

“Whoa,” he managed to force out, and he was probably grinning like a retard. “That was nice.” And, yeah, understatement. Dean chuckled at his own wittiness; clearly he was being witty as hell, because right now even remembering how to move his head up from Castiel’s sternum took an absurd amount of effort. He grinned up at the angel, shuffled back the exact amount he needed to slip his spent cock out of Castiel and not an inch more, then promptly fell back against him. “Earth to Cas. You still here?”

Dean was talking to him, that much Castiel knew. This was different from the last time they’d done something like this; he felt heavy and his thoughts were strangely fuzzy. He blinked down at Dean with wide eyes and tried to remember how to speak. 

There were muscles twitching and tingling in ways he’d never noticed before and a strange sense of loss when Dean slid out of him. “Here?” he parroted blankly. “I…yes?” He was an eons old celestial being and he had completely lost any ability to form entire sentences for the moment. Instead of trying again he reached down to tug Dean up and pressed their lips together again.

He’d banged his head on the hood of the Impala and even as he was hopefully distracting Dean –and Dean’s ego- from the fact that he couldn’t recall how to talk he hoped he hadn’t dented the sheet metal. Because Dean might actually try to kill him for hurting his precious ‘baby’. He carefully unhooked his leg from around Dean’s hip and let it fall to the ground and tried to ignore the strange twitchy tingling in the muscle of his thigh. 

The fact that he should probably fix the mess he’d caused occurred to him but he was far more interested in being this close to Dean. Was this what humans felt every time they found release? If so, no wonder they rutted like so many animals. Castiel could have done without the temporary lose of cognitive functions though.

“Yeah? You don’t sound all here, buddy, no offence,” Dean shot back in a lazy drawl, still smiling. And that was true, in a sense; he’d never seen Cas look so damned relaxed, so completely grounded instead of off somewhere lost in his head. There was an openness behind those stupidly blue eyes that was a bit disarming, and Dean certainly didn’t miss the fact that he was the one who’d put that there, who’d, finally, gotten that famed stick out of the angel’s ass. 

He was chuckling lazily again when hands pulled him upwards and he had no choice but to follow; Cas may have been out of it but his grip certainly hadn’t changed. Dean wasn’t complaining though. This kiss was lazy, a hell of a lot less urgent than before, and he allowed himself to indulge a bit even if his gut reaction should probably have been to joke his way around the kissing and pull back. This was dangerous not only because it was threading close to post-coital cuddling, but because he was starting to realize that he actually wanted it.

Still, Castiel’s lips were pretty damned enjoyable like this, when the angel seemed willing to take the reins a bit, for whatever reason. He only pulled away when he was near breathless again and gingerly released his death grip on Castiel’s hips, hoping he hadn’t left bruises before remembering that the standard rules didn’t apply here. When he glanced down, he had to take a couple seconds to appreciate the sight of a totally debauched Castiel lounging back against the hood of his car, splayed in a lazy sprawl with both of his legs dangling off the hood.

He made quick work of pulling up his boxers and jeans again, then leaned down to make a grab for Castiel’s slacks, which were still pooled around his ankles. The dark jacket and trench coat were strewn around the car on the dirt and he had no idea where his own coat and shirt had landed, but Dean felt pretty damned fine anyway; he’d just had the best sex since he couldn’t remember when, his entire body was thrumming pleasantly—his shoulder especially, a dull, numb feeling of pins and needles, like he’d gotten pummelled by a large swedish masseuse—and he’d just pretty much rendered an angel of the Lord speechless.

Or at least, incoherent, which was good enough in Dean’s book.

“Come on, Shakespeare, let’s get your comatose self back inside before Sammy starts to wonder what the hell we’re up to out here,” he joked, pulling the dark trousers up Castiel’s legs until they bumped to a stop against the hood of the car. And, because he could and he was feeling like a million bucks, Dean leaned up, captured Cas’ lips in another quick, lazy kiss and stepped back to pick up—and find, first—the rest of their clothes.


	14. Awkward Awakenings.

Castiel grunted and peered down at Dean as he tried to get his slacks back on. He blinked and, rather than struggling with buttons and zippers and other annoyingly complex things, he simply used his grace to set his clothing to rights and clean them both up. 

However he didn’t move from where he was more or less sprawled over the hood. He chose to watch Dean hunt for his clothing instead. “I’m hardly… comatose,” he grumbled, still feeling lazy and thick-witted. “And all things considered, I believe Sam has a decent idea of what we were up to.”

Angels didn’t sleep like humans did, but at the moment Castiel felt like sleep would be an amazing idea. Even if he wasn’t completely drained like he had been the last time he’d slept; somehow he still wanted to lay in bed with Dean and relax. The voices of the host hummed in a rare moment of contentment which only worked to relax him more.

Even the close proximity of a keystone seemed a distant worry for the moment. It was rather jarring honestly. They’d both been so keyed up, from dealing with the Dullahan and then Dean being so angry at him, it was like all that pent-up emotion had rushed out of them both.

“Looking pretty damn near comatose from this end, man. Not that I’m complaining, of course,” Dean called out, walking around the car briefly. Somehow he found his shirt halfway buried under the damned car, near the front wheel and he had absolutely no idea how it’d gotten there. The search for his jacket took him back to the front of the Impala; he found it bunched into a wrinkled mess under one of Castiel’s feet. 

When he’d brushed most of the dirt from his jacket and slipped his shirt back on, he straightened up to find that Cas was still sprawled, though he’d somehow managed to get all of his clothes back on, including the missing jacket and trench coat. Even the ever present blue tie was back, which was sort of relief because Dean had figured it lost forever after seeing where his damned shirt had landed. “And, hey, what do you know? I never even thought of getting my baby a hood ornament and here you are,” he added, a smirk playing at his lips.

And then he was chuckling again, because this right here? Pretty much the funniest thing he could’ve imagined; a blissed-out Cas lounging on his car, shattered light bulbs all over the place and Sammy probably wanting to pour bleach straight into his brain somewhere inside that motel room just a couple dozen feet away. This seemed a pretty damned far cry from the massive mess they’d both been just an hour or so ago, when it’d felt like everything Dean had been saying had just flown right over Castiel’s stubborn angelic head.

He still wasn’t sure if that discussion—fight, whatever—had ended in his favor or not; he had a feeling he’d somehow gotten played a bit.

Not bothering to pull on his jacket—it had gotten a bit smudged into the dirt, and if Dean had to guess he’d vote for Castiel’s foot grinding it down when he’d bucked so very enthusiastically upwards—Dean was just turning back towards the motel room when he remembered the keystone. He’d left the other one behind to get swiped once; he certainly wasn’t going to make the same mistake again.

So he walked over to the trunk, grappled for the stone between a box of shotgun shells and a stray jar of holy oil and walked back around to the front of the car, stopping a couple feet away from Cas because he knew the angel wasn’t too keen on getting close to the stones even at the best of times. “You uh… remember that other one, right, Cas? ‘Cause it pulled a bit of a number on us and now I’m wondering…” Dean paused, frowned and hefted the stone in his hand briefly; it felt lighter, different, just a stone now. 

“I think… You know what? S’not important. This thing’s going with the other one and we baptized baby’s hood in an awesome way. I mean, really, properly baptized it,” he clarified with a leer and a twitch of an eyebrow.

Castiel hauled himself off the hood of the car. He watched Dean walk around to the back of the Impala to retrieve the stone. He shivered when Dean came to stand a few feet away from him. “I’m not a hood ornament, Dean,” he said with a small smile.

He was more alert now the stone was closer to him. It made him more aware of everything. “And contrary to what you may think, my bodily fluids are not holy,” he added with a low chuckle. “Perhaps we should get inside before Sam comes looking for us.”

He wasn’t sure he wanted to face the younger Winchester with him knowing what they’d just done. Not that Sam didn’t already have a good idea what they’d done before this. Castiel carefully crafted his most Angel of the Lord face which was a spectacular failure because he was still so relaxed.

Dean couldn’t help it; he laughed, because the combination of Castiel’s straight up deadpan voice and the words tumbling out of the angel’s mouth were just too absurd. He refrained from slinging an arm around Cas’ shoulders only because he was pretty sure it’d be uncool to do so with a grace-sucking stone now stuck in his pocket. Instead, he shook his head, shot Castiel an, “I don’t care, it still counts,” which only made him grin wider and walked a couple steps towards the motel before stopping and shuffling his feet in place a trifle awkwardly.

“You said shielded, so… Is there, uh…?” Dean reached a hand out, felt nothing out of the ordinary and shrugged, stepping past the line clear of broken place and further into the parking lot. “Guess that clears that up, then,” he said, glancing back at the car.

Which looked ridiculously suspicious just sitting there in the middle of a massive jumble of crushed glass. They’d probably be busted the minute Sam stuck his head outside the damn room. And that happened almost instantaneously, Sammy bolting outside the room just as Dean stepped past the clear circle of pavement. 

And he looked both worried and, somehow, still pissed. “Where in the hell have you been, Dean? I mean, you disappear with your panties in a bunch an hour ago, and then there’s all sorts of weird shit happening outside and now this?” Sam blurted, sweeping a hand out to indicate the crushed glass. “And what happened to your jacket?” He hesitated, looked mighty guilty about his outburst for a second, and then his face turned all the way worried, eyebrows scrunching up almost comically. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Dean answered, though the damned smile just wouldn’t leave his face. “Had a… talk with Cas.” He shrugged loosely and managed not to smirk. Barely.

Sammy’s face froze. “A… talk. You had a talk that made all the streetlights explode.”

“Hell of a talk, man. Really.”

“Right. Right, okay, fine,” Sam answered, and the way his expression seemed to vacillate between amused and horrified almost made Dean lose his hold on his own chuckling completely. “Well, try not to talk so damned loud in the future, okay? And where’s Cas?”

Castiel released the shield of grace he’d been using to hide them both and felt the small bit of energy from it return to him. It wasn’t a lot but it lessened the stress from the stone. He looked up at Sam and cleared his throat. “My apologies, Sam. Sometime the stress of the…conversation makes me lose control a bit,” he said with no small amount of amusement.

The angel cast Dean a greatly amused look. “I will endeavor to keep better control of myself in the future.” He brushed past Dean to head into the room. He was glad he’d thought to clean them both up before Dean moved too far away. 

He’d leave the lights broken for once; it wasn’t worth the effort to fix them. He’d rather curl up with Dean and watch him sleep. That was probably stranger than it should be, but he found it rather soothing to watch Dean when he was at rest and that was unlikely to change.

Both Sam and Dean turned when Castiel’s voice rang out and suddenly the angel was simply there where before there’d only been empty air; it had been different from his usual flying in and Dean had about a second’s worth of time to reflect that maybe the whole grace shield thing was a bit more common than he’d thought—just how many times had Cas been lurking around before, really?—and then Sammy’s face went nuclear as he sputtered at Castiel’s response.

It shouldn’t have been as funny as it was, really; this was the very definition of awkward, because Dean knew his brother knew, and he’d never been anything but carefully secretive of whatever the hell he’d done with guys before. This was Cas, though, and there’d just been, he was pretty sure, a joke at Sam’s expense right there. It was altogether too good to pass up by being bashful.

Of course, the joke was on him right after that, because he stupidly met Castiel’s eyes, got a smoldering, mocking look and another crack at the exploding lights and then Cas was heading inside the room, as though nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.

“God, your life is fucked up, Dean,” Sam blurted, looking everywhere but at him. His eyes fell on the car and he cringed, turned around to make sure Cas was gone—though how discussing this with him was any better, Dean would never know—and added, “Tell me you didn’t… I mean… Jesus, I sit back there sometimes.”

Dean shrugged. “Backseat was already a bit of a minefield before, dude. And no, we didn’t ‘talk’ anywhere near the damned backseat. Happy?”

Sammy actually cringed. “Can we drop the ‘talk’ metaphor please? It’s just… wrong.”

“No way. I like talk. Talk’s here to stay, get used to it,” Dean shot back, elbowing past his brother and following Castiel into the motel room. He dumped the stone on Sammy’s bed—it clearly was Sammy’s bed, because his brother had used the time he and Cas had been ‘talking’ to set up a sort of nest of pillows and laptop and newspapers—and made his way past the angel towards the bathroom. “Shower. Don’t you guys ‘talk’ about me behind my back, ‘cause I’ll know.”

He didn’t actually need a damned shower, thanks to whatever the hell Cas had done with the mojo earlier, but old habits died hard and he figured he might as well milk this lazy feeling for all it was worth. About thirty seconds after the door had been shut and he was out of sight, Sam started to fidget in the hotel room. 

He coughed in the awkward silence and plonked himself down on his own bed, stuffing the keystone into his messenger bag for safekeeping. As far as stalling went, it was pretty weak, and he sighed, glanced up at Cas and shrugged. “So, uh… Talking, huh? How’s that going for you?”

Castiel tilted his head and sat down on the edge of the open bed. He’d caught on to the metaphor and found it amusing. But it was clear Sam found it disturbing to say the least. “Given my limited knowledge on it, well,” he said with a small shrug.

He folded his hands in his lap and wasn’t sure what there was for him to say to Sam about this. He was smart enough to know that details of any sort would be unwelcome. But other than that he was unsure of how to proceed. So he would wait until Sam continued on with the conversation or changed topics.

The temptation to simply excuse himself then follow Dean into the bathroom was great. But he sensed that would be pushing the limit of whatever delicate thing they had. So he would endure the awkward talk with Sam. “You didn’t take any injury from the Dullahan, did you?” he asked suddenly, realizing he’d never bothered to make sure Sam was okay.

"Right. Okay." Sam blinked, shuffled around awkwardly on the bed and finally snagged his laptop and got up to sit at the table instead. It was only slightly less mortifying all the way over here, even though Castiel was still just sitting there on Dean's--God, this was going to take some getting used to--bed, looking for all the world like absolutely nothing weird had happened out there.

Bitching about the damned tension with Bobby and trying to discuss this with Dean were apparently very different things than actually being around when the interracial happened. "Let's, uh... Never talk about this again, okay?" 

Sam paused, staring in horror at his blank laptop screen. "I mean, let's never talk at all. I mean..." He huffed out an explosive breath and muttered, "Oh, fuck you, Dean, for using that word for it." Unfortunately, his brother was still in the shower; Sam could hear the water running from here, and if Dean started singing there'd be hell to pay later on, even if Sam would take just about anything over the silence. 

He finally turned very grateful eyes towards the angel when Cas abruptly changed topics. "Oh, yeah, I'm fine. You guys took the brunt of it," he answered, not quite aware of his words. Happily, Dean saved him from having to make further small talk a few minutes later by shuffling out of the shower wearing boxers and not a stitch more clothing, towelling absentmindedly at his hair as he made his way past Sam towards his bed.

"Dude, gross," Sam griped. "Put on some clothes."

"I got headless horseman goo all over my damned jeans, Sammy, so no," Dean answered, flopping bonelessly face first onto his bed. If Sam noticed how casual he was about it with Cas sitting--and bouncing a bit, the springs rocking the entire mattress when Dean crashed onto it--just a handspan away, he didn't mention it.

"Hey, Cas," Dean mumbled conspiratorially, face half buried against a pillow, "If Sammy approaches with a sharpie, it means he's up to no good and you're allowed to smite him."

"God, you're an ass. You're not allowed to recruit divine help in the prank wars," Sam shot back, brow furrowing as he booted up his laptop.

Dean snorted, muffled by the pillow. "That's not an official rule, princess, so suck it."

There were a charged few seconds of silence, just long enough for Dean to wonder why he wasn't getting a rapid-fire comeback. He raised his head slowly, looked up and caught sight of Sam, lips pinched tight, obviously either trying not to laugh or refraining from saying something. Dean frowned, opened his mouth to tell him off but Sam was quicker.

"Suck it, really? That's the door you're opening, Dean? Come on."

To his dismay, Dean actually felt heat rise to his cheeks. He glanced quickly at Cas--and, yep, still sitting there, still the same goddamned lips, only now he actually had several unhelpful mental images to accompany the sight--and coughed, reaching upwards to grab and fling a free pillow vaguely in Sam's direction.

"Oh, shut the fuck up and go find us food or something," he grumbled.

Sam laughed, ducking under the pillow, and Dean found himself smiling too, though he did his best to hide it against his pillow. "Sure, sure. I'll just shower first, too. Better hope there's still hot water left in there." His brother got up--cheeky little bastard had the nerve to grin at Castiel, Dean couldn't help but notice--and headed over to the small bathroom, making sure to close the door firmly behind him.

Castiel found himself chuckling as Sam clearly fumbled around with the idea. “I understood what you meant, Sam,” he said with an amused look. He was glad Sam was alright and made a mental note to make sure he kept an eye on Sam better in the future for Dean’s sake.

He glanced up at Dean when he walked out of the bathroom and had to keep himself from eyeing Dean. He wasn’t sure if Dean would approve him being so open about things. He looked between the brothers and shook his head. “I doubt that there will be any need for me to smite anyone,” he said solemnly. 

When Sam had finally disappeared into the bathroom he laid back on the bed next to Dean. He wasn’t laying completely on the bed his feet still touched the ground. “I am sorry I lied to you, you know,” he said conversationally. “I know that probably doesn’t mean much, but it’s the truth.”

Dean cracked an eye open and twisted his head to stare at Castiel; he was lying down in what looked like the most uncomfortable, tense sprawl imaginable. It was still better than the stiff way the angel usually sat, but it was a damned far cry from the lazy grace he'd demonstrated when he was reclining like a damned porn star on the hood of Dean's car.

He shook his head. "Cas, seriously. We're going to need to have a talk about how arguments work, man. We bitched, the shit hit the fan, there was awesome makeup sex and now I'm just about ready to fall asleep and I'm not scowling at you or punching walls." Dean managed a faint snort, pulled his pillow closer and paused for effect before letting his head fall back down.

"That means you're off the friggin' hook for now, okay? Don't bring it up again." He wasn't totally okay with what had gone down, of course, because going for Crowley's help was a hell of a shit thing to do. But Cas had a point; Dean had done pretty much the same thing--barring a few details which he knew he'd blown out of proportion to their importance earlier--more than once. It'd still take a while for him to swallow it down though, and talking about it was guaranteed to make the process more annoying.

And because he wasn't sure if his voice hadn't been just a touch too gruff just then and he knew that Sammy usually took forever with his girly showers, he reached out, fisted a hand loosely in Castiel's dress shirt and tugged. "C'mere. Sam's a great big girl with his hair products so I'm not spending the next half hour watching you develop a crick in your neck simply 'cause you're worried about an imaginary line down the middle of this bed."

It was a shitty, weak excuse, but Dean was still riding a lovely, slightly sore high, he was exhausted and comfortable and he was determined to enjoy it while he could. This time, he ignored the nagging little voice at the back of his mind that kept repeating that this was unwise, that Cas definitely wasn't playing the same game he was and that he was pretty likely to either get himself killed--again--or fuck off back to heaven at some point. 

That damned voice was starting to get on his nerves something fierce. 

"You, uh... Hanging around for now?" he blurted, hand still clenched into thin cotton, and damn him if he didn't feel himself start to grow freaking ovaries as he heard the words leave his mouth.

“I’m still not sure how you can make something so complex sound so simple and something simple so complex,” Castiel said a bit plaintively when Dean pretty much told him that he was forgiven. He knew that the next time they argued or he did something not a hundred percent the way Dean wanted, the issue would get brought back up again. 

He obediently followed Dean’s tug on his shirt and scooted further up the bed and closer to Dean. “Is this better?” he asked, scooting a bit closer to him and reaching up to slot his hand against the brand on Dean’s shoulder.

“I had no plans to leave unless you’d like me to go.” Castiel could have gone and helped Azrael and Gabriel try to dig up more information on the fallen. But if Dean didn’t want him to go, he could pretend he was needed here and couldn’t leave. He was getting lazy and way too used to simply staying with the Winchesters rather than doing his job.

Strangely none of that mattered when he was this close to Dean. Nothing really seemed to matter all that much. It was something that should have terrified him, but instead made him crave more.

"Yeah, better," Dean muttered back, slouching back down onto the mattress when Cas eventually relented and shuffled closer. Any other time he would've pulled away, made an excuse not to seem so damned eager to enjoy the closeness. But all his limbs felt heavy and loose, and the near-boiling shower had only intensified that until the simple thought of moving was an effort that actually seemed bone deep.

He barely even registered Cas' hand against his skin until fingers and palm slid upwards to his shoulder. And, really, he shouldn't have been surprised at the faint hint of warmth and want that rose up when Castiel's hand finally made contact with the scar. It still forced a full-body shudder out of him, something fast and loose that wrenched a strangled groan of appreciative pleasure out of his throat.

He would have been mortified if he weren't just so damned comfortable.

"Good, 'cause I ain't moving from this bed," he muttered back, flopping one arm blindly until it slotted into place against Castiel's hip. And it was, of course, just his luck that Sammy chose that moment to exit his damned shower, dressed in sweatpants and a too small t-shirt, preening at his hair with one hand.

Dean almost praised to an absent God when Sam didn't so much as double-take at finding him pretty much draped lazily against Cas. 

"You guys need a moment, or should I just assume you found something better than burgers to occupy yourself with, Dean?"

And just like that, it was on. "Ain't nothing better than a cheeseburger, Sammy, you know that," Dean drawled back, stubbornly not moving an inch except to curl his fingers against Castiel's hip, secretly pleased that he could get to feel the firm warmth there even under the stern lines of his slacks. 

"Nothing at all?" Sam answered, and fuck the little shit, but there was a smirk there, Dean was sure.

"Well, I could go for a massage in some tahitian spa. Maybe a fancy five-star meal with beef that you can cut with a spoon. Or, oooh, yeah, some beach somewhere, with margaritas and some fierce sunlight." He grinned into his pillow, shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe all at once. Maybe a massage on a beach with some kickass food and a really girly drink. And hey, if you ain't there, I might even get to taste it."

He almost felt Sam frown. "I drink just as much beer as you."

"No you don't; you drink that shit with the umbrellas and sticky, sugary rims," Dean drawled back.

"Do I have to remind you? Purple nurples?"

A long pause, because Dean was way too comfortable and probably way too okay with the familiar heat of Castiel's hip against his side to argue. "I liked those, fuck you," he grumbled back, shifting almost unconsciously, and suddenly there was bare skin just a few inches from his face, Castiel's throat against his own pillow nearly close enough to touch. He hissed a breath through his teeth and tried to pass it off as a snort.

Castiel was content to lay with Dean so close and comfortable. He almost wished he could sleep if only to drift of blanketed in comfortable and companionable closeness. It was impossible but he could pretend. He glanced up at Sam when he exited the bath room and chuckled lowly.

“I assure you, Sam. Your brother’s questionable virtue is safe for the moment,” he said, completely unable to help himself. He figured Dean would catch on to what he’d said and react temperamentally but it would be amusing. 

“Purple Nurples? What are those?” He cocked his head to the side curiously. He figured they were a sort of alcoholic drink but beyond that he had no idea what they were. It was tempting to just whisk Dean away to a beach with sunlight streaming over it, like he wanted. To give him at least a day to just relax and enjoy existence.

Castiel decided that that was what he was going to do. He knew there were several tropical beaches around the world where Dean would have all the sun and sand he wanted without another soul to bother him.

Dean chuckled out a muffled, "Ha, damn right it is," just about the same time as Sam blurted out, "Oh my God, what?". It was confusing, both of their voices for a few seconds drowning in the silence, until Cas just went and broke the awkwardness of the moment with his question about the drink.

He was about to answer, but Sammy, curse him, was quicker to recover. "Purple Nurples. Ask Dean about them sometime; apparently they're all the rage at college parties all over the place."

Dean frowned, muttering into his pillow. "Hey, I was laying low." Unfortunately, Sam was speaking over him again, clearly seeing that he had the upper hand over Dean's lazy stupor. 

"Yeah, and she was nasty, man."

And that meant war, clearly. Because, sure, the chick had been dubiously sober and even more dubiously of legal age, but he hadn't done anything, whereas Sam had spent his night obsessing over the case. The fact that he had also been, by proxy, obsessing over the ass-turd of an archangel, even unknowingly, was obviously fair game for a retort, as far as Dean was concerned.

"Well excuse me if I wasn't busy going all googly-eyed over the damned janitor at the time," he shot back.

The reaction he got--even half hidden against his own arm because he was still sprawled bonelessly on the bed--was almost unexpected. Sammy actually blushed, from the roots of his too-long hair to his ridiculously overgrown sideburns. Dean huffed out a whooping laugh of triumph against the sheets.

The discarded pillow from earlier came sailing back at his face, prompting more laughter. And if he chuckled easier because Cas was actually involved this time, was near his side and forced to witness all this fucking endless bantering and prodding, well... He had to be forgiven if he found it just a tad more hilarious, if his laughter came a bit easier for the fact that, yeah, he was still more or less pressed against Castiel's side, and the angel wasn't fluttering off, and Sammy wasn't exploding in a mess of righteous wrath and indignation.

God, yes, things were going his way.

"I'll call that one a win, then, Samantha. M'sure Mister Sweet Tooth'll appreciate the sentiment," Dean mumbled against his arm.

He got a grunted out, "Jerk," for his troubles, and smiled wider, lazily stretching out--yeah, he'd get shit for it later--against Castiel's side.

“Please don’t inflate Gabriel’s ego even more than it already is,” Castiel said with a huff. He wasn’t completely serious about it though, as Gabriel was among the most decent of his brothers. He shifted against Dean and relaxed a bit more.

He stuck his other hand down Dean’s side where it was hidden between them. “You may not need to go get food, Sam. It looks like Dean’s falling asleep,” he stated, completely content with that thought. He was way too comfortable curled up next to Dean like he was. It was most unbecoming of an angel, and yet Castiel couldn’t bring himself to care. 

There was no simple contact among angels. Any sort of touch was immense among his brothers. If they fought it was mostly with their grace not, as some of them may have put it, ‘barbarically’ with their fists. It made no sense for Castiel to be craving physical contact like he did. But there he was, openly seeking and enjoying the touch of a human.

His brothers would be scandalized. Well most of them would be; Balthazar would just make some sort of lewd joke and possibly suggest that the stick up his ass had been removed and apparently replaced by something far more fun. Trust Balthazar to be the most human of these angels closest to him. Without really thinking about it, Castiel sought out Balthazar’s unique voice in the host and touched it with a bit of grace. It was the angelic equivalent of a familiar wave. 

Balthazar returned the sentiment and the vague suggestion that he might have some information Castiel would like to hear, and could he please tear himself away from playing with his toys to come hear it? Castiel was loathe to leave but if Balthazar had information he knew it was important he find out what it was. It could wait until Dean and Sam decided what they were going to do though.

Sam rolled his eyes, using the excuse of putting away his laptop bag and sort of dismantling the nest of pillows to probably avoid any further discussion on the topic of Gabriel. Dean figured he’d be due some serious prodding and smirking about that later, because, really? He decided it was probably more of Sammy’s endless supply of awe around angels in general, since he’d never really lost the wide-eyed, kid-meeting-Santa-Clause look around some of them.

Cas he usually treated like just another part of their little fucked-up family, mostly, and that should probably have clued Dean in that something had maybe been simmering between Castiel and himself for a damned long while. It was just a shame he’d only just now figured it out, because the sex? Freakin’ fantastic.

And it was nice, to just laze about and have firm warmth pressed against him, like Cas belonged there, with Dean’s hand slotted comfortably against the clothed hollow of a slim hip. He tried not to dwell on how disgustingly sugary-sweet he was being. 

Happily, Sammy knocked his brain firmly away from that train of thought by going, “Yeah, Dean, you should stop stroking angels’… egos.” And the little bastard had added that pause on purpose, of course. 

If Dean hadn’t been furiously comfortable he might have sent the pillow sailing back, but that would’ve required some extreme contorting to reach for it where he’d flung it away, and anyway he’d have to throw it over Cas now and… Yeah, he had no valid excuse, really. Especially when Castiel’s hand snuck between them and brushed against his side, uncertain, like the angel figured Dean would pull away. Fortunately, Dean was too far gone on the heels of exhaustion to care and Cas, sneaky, perceptive Cas, apparently picked up on it and called him out.

“Oh, so now you’re an expert on my sleeping habits, Mr. Accidental Tesla Coil?” he mumbled back, not even bothering to open his eyes and hiding a faint grin against his pillow. He’d probably muttered that a bit too loud, because he heard Sammy groan out a disbelieving snort.

“Jesus, Dean. TMI, really.” Some shuffling around, which Dean only heard, because there was no way he was cracking his eyes open now. “And I’m going to bed, right now, and if I hear even a whisper of a sigh I swear to God I’m throwing you both out.”

“Got it, Sasquatch. No sighing,” Dean quipped back, arm heavy and loose against Castiel’s side.

Castiel chuckled and curled his hand around Dean’s hip. It was a strangely possessive move for him to simply want to hold on to Dean like he was. But it felt good and far more comfortable than he’d admit. “The fact you’re dozing off against me is a big giveaway, Dean,” he murmured with smirk.

“I’ve just heard from Balthazar that he has information for me, so I’m not going to be here for long it seems,” he said with a sigh. Because he was loathe to leave with Dean lying so comfortably next to him. But duty called and he couldn’t put it off for very long.

“So any…sighing that you might hear, Sam, will not involve me in the slightest,” he said blithely and ghosted his fingers over Dean’s side and ribs. “I should be back before you two head out tomorrow,” Castiel added as he carefully untangled himself from Dean.

“Ain’t dozing, just resting my eyes,” Dean answered automatically, more for the principle of the thing, because, really, dozing was exactly what was going on just then. He heard more shuffling, in the opposite bed; Sam getting under the covers somewhere way too near suddenly, because Cas—damn his twitchy little fingers—was dancing his hand up Dean’s side, leaving a trail of warmth that pretty much threatened to make him break his damned promise right then and there.

When Castiel spoke again and stood, Dean rolled into the warm spot, cracked open an eye and silently glared at Sammy, daring him to comment. His brother was staring back and grinning from ear to ear, like the giant man-girl that he was. Dean shuffled a hand up lazily and shot him the finger. Sammy made a face and shot him a low, “Oh, that’s weak, man.”

“Bitch,” he growled back, chancing a look at Castiel without waiting for the retort.

It came anyway. “Jerk.”

“So, uh…” Dean shuffled up onto his back, a bit—understatement of the century, there—uncomfortable with the words that he couldn’t quite seem to keep from tumbling out of his mouth. “You watch your ass out there, Cas.” 

A snort from Sam. Dean furiously tried to ignore him. “I mean, be careful. And… stuff. Jesus, I’m going to sleep now,” he blurted, rolling over and burying himself back into his pillow. Just, what the hell? He’d never hear the end of this one, he just knew it.

Sammy barked out a small laugh. “We’ll see you tomorrow, Cas. I’ll let you know if he pines.”

Dean grunted out a totally mortified groan into his pillow and started making a mental list of all the things he would do to get his stupid, grinning brother back for that one tomorrow. 

Castiel shook his head. “I will be as careful as you are, Dean,” he said, unable to hide his slightly indulgent look before disappearing with a rustle of air. He was still smiling slightly when he appeared next to Balthazar. 

They were somewhere in France in the 1800’s. That was all that Castiel cared to look into things. Balthazar did like his human decadence and indulgences. The other angel was drinking some sort of sparkling wine out of a fluted glass.

“Castiel. You look… happy,” Balthazar said by way of greeting and tilted his head at Castiel. “Oh-ho, you’ve finally decided to really play with your favorite pet. Glad to see the stick’s been removed, and replaced with something else, I dare say.” Balthazar seemed thrilled by this news.

“Balthazar, I do hope you have some information for me.” Castiel didn’t bother to deny it; he probably reeked of his and Dean’s recent escapades. 

“Oh, I do. It’s about our dear brother Azzy,” Balthazar drawled out, stretching the nickname to make it sound more like Assy. “He’s been going to hell far more often than he’ll admit. He’s also taken to curb stomping uncle Raphy every time it looks like his wings are starting to mend.”

That was troubling news. “He’s trying to track down whoever is pretending to be Samael, so his trips into hell are excusable,” Castiel answered with a frown. “As for what he’s doing with Raphael, that’s… unsettling. What does Gabriel say?”

“Our Dearest Gabe? He doesn’t say anything. He’s been in heaven all of ten minute since he came back; I don’t know what he’s doing.” Balthazar shrugged and Castiel sighed.

“I’ll makes some inquires. Thank you for keeping an eye on Azrael, Balthazar.”

“Think nothing of it, Cassie. Now, tell me about your pet, I am absolutely dying to hear the details of how that happened.”

“You will have to continue to suffer in silence then, Balthazar. I believe the term is ‘I don’t kiss and tell’.” 

Balthazar scoffed at that and crossed his arms. “You are no fun at all. I’ll just ask your pet the next time I see him.”

“Please do so while I’m present. Dean’s reaction would be highly amusing to see.” Castiel shook his head and a short while later took himself back to Sam and Dean’s hotel room, several hours later than when he’d left it.

“‘I’ll let you know if he pines?’ You’re dead, Sammy. Soon as I can wrench my ass out of this bed, you better run, ‘cause I’m comin’ after you,” Dean growled as soon as Cas was gone. He hadn’t dared return the angel’s surprisingly, well, he’d call it fond, maybe… look, simply because Sammy was still there and still very much grinning. And it was good, despite the ridiculous blush that was blooming against his freckled cheeks, it was freakin’ better than great to see Sam laugh again.

But if the little bastard made another goddamn joke, Dean swore he’d strangle him. Happily, the banter died down soon enough—Dean resorted to the pillow again, since it was a pretty efficient projectile, all things considered—and he finally slipped into sleep. He didn’t even stop to worry about possible dreams, too busy struggling not to grin stupidly despite his everlasting shame and concocting some sort of plan for his revenge tomorrow.

He heard Sammy chuckle as he drifted off to sleep. He didn’t dream at all.

When Dean woke again it was ass o’ clock in the morning, the sun barely up in the sky. He blinked groggily, figured this could be his one chance to plan something without Sammy knowing and got up to stretch. Sam’s bed was empty.

“Morning,” came his voice from table near the TV. Sammy was sitting there, already up and dressed. “Figured it’d be wise not to let you get up first.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah? What time d’you get up, man? It’s not even light out.”

A shrug, another one of those shit-eating grin. Dean, despite himself, found that he was grinning back. “Four o’ clock. I know you don’t have Nair in your pack, but I wasn’t risking the itching powder again. Coffee?”

“Fuck yeah. There’s a place just down the road. Gimme ten.”

Ten was actually more like five, and when they’d packed their meagre possessions—and double-checked to make sure the keystone was where it was supposed to be—they abandoned the room and headed for the Impala.

Where Sam promptly froze as Dean was walking around the back to get to the driver’s side. He tilted his head at his brother and blinked; Sammy was standing there with his mouth partially open, pointing at the car.

“Jesus, Dean. What the hell happened to your car?”

“What? Nothing happe—…” He stopped mid-sentence because there, right there on the hood of his baby, was the most massive casual dent she’d ever sported (truck accidents and tire irons didn’t count). And if this had been just the doing of some random kid with too much time on his hand and a mean streak, Dean would have exploded.

But he didn’t, because he vaguely recalled that the spot was exactly where Cas had been arching and bucking last night, and that dent looked suspiciously like something that could be achieved with, say, a friggin’ bowling ball. Or, apparently, a very, very solid angel skull.

Dean coughed. “Just get in the car, Sammy.”

“What?” Sam looked around in confusion. “Why isn’t this place on fire yet? No tears? No shouts? No screams? And nobody’s dying.” He narrowed his eyes, patted his pockets a bit.

“Your holy water’s in the damn duffle bag on the backseat, genius. Now get in the car.” And yeah, Dean was pissed. He was livid, really; that dent would take hours of careful prodding and gentle pushing until it popped back and then he’d have to redo some of the paint. A damn pain in the ass. But the image of Cas, totally out of his mind with Dean, with Dean’s hands on him and Dean’s cock driving into him, eyes lust-blown to dark circles, arching back in a sinuous line with his mouth open in a silent scream… Well, that went a ways towards making him just a tad mellower than he maybe should’ve been.

Sam got in the car, staring uncertainly at him like he’d lost his mind. “We still going for coffee or did we just cross back into that bizarro world where you’re fake me and I’m fake you again?”

“Still coffee, smartass,” Dean growled back, though there was little malice in his voice.

Castiel popped into the room not ten minutes after Dean and Sam left. He looked around the room and frowned. He of course couldn’t sense where the Winchesters were. But he could sense where the Impala was, as it was still carrying the stone and hadn’t yet moved very far. It only took a bit of thought and grace and Castiel appeared sitting in the back seat of the Impala. 

He hoped his sudden appearance didn’t throw Dean off too much. But he found the car empty and parked at a dinner. Strangely, that annoyed him a bit. He got out of the car the mundane way and walked into the diner. After the cool clean air of eighteenth century France the mingled smells of the dinner hit him unpleasantly like a kick to the gut.

Castiel found Dean and Sam in a booth with what he assumed was an attractive waitress leaning over the table and making eyes at Dean. It was no surprise that Dean was flirting with her. No, it wasn’t a surprise but the strange unpleasant twinge in his stomach was. It made Castiel frown slightly.

Jealousy was petty, and nothing that an angel of the Lord should be experiencing. But Castiel was jealous over Dean flirting with a waitress. Even when he knew that asking Dean not to flirt was like nicely asking a volcano if it would please stop erupting in a nice quiet tone of voice. It was pointless; Dean flirted because that was part of his personality. And yet, Castiel was still jealous, it was pointless and biased, and human.

Quickly, Castiel bottled that emotion down and pushed it away. The frown lasted only a few seconds before it was replaced by his typical neutral expression. He waited patiently while the waitress finished up with her flirtations and left before moving to stand in front of the table.

It was almost laughable how easy it was to get distracted; first of all there was the promise of food, and after the previous night’s—Dean’d be honest there and call it a workout—activities and passing out on an empty stomach, he was pretty much ravenous. Though he figured battling some nightmarish creature without a head and subsequent marathon sex against his own car stood as a fairly good excuse.

And then of course Sammy’s mood, which was absurd and sky high, and Dean found himself riding the same cloud simply because it had been so damned long since the last time they’d shared anything even remotely like this. He supposed impending apocalypses tended to do that. Lastly, the girl who sauntered over to their table was definitely easy on the eyes and extremely interested, if the way she smiled and nodded and brushed a hand against Dean’s shoulder was any indication.

It was almost second nature by now to flirt back, a game he knew how to play and knew how to play well, and he’d done it for so long as an easy way to distract himself that he never even thought twice about it.

The charm came on full force, a tilt of his head, a quick dart of his eyes to her more than generous rack and a rakish grin snaking along his lips. “Pancakes, as many sausages as you can fit on my plate, all the honey you got and coffee, sweetheart,” he drawled, giving her back the stained menu.

When he turned back to Sammy, his brother was frowning. “I’ll just have eggs, over easy, and cut the bacon,” he grumbled back, actually glaring at Dean.

The girl shot Sam a confused look that probably meant ‘Okay, sunshine, get up on the right side of the bed next time’, turned towards Dean, gave him another suggestive smile then turned on her heel and walked away. Dean followed the swinging curve of her hips until she was out of sight before rolling his eyes. “What? Jesus, what d’I do? Christ, princess, you should’ve spoken up if you wanted a shot.”

Cold silence greeted him for a few moments. “I really think you’re an ass sometimes, you know that, right?” Sam finally said, and whatever Dean might have answered was actually lost between one moment and the next.

Because when he slumped back against his seat Castiel was suddenly standing right at the edge of their table, all rumpled shirt and quiet power and definitely rocking the whole ‘angel of the Lord’ stick. Dean frowned as well, but the expression was fleeting, immediately replaced by a carefree smirk, his body relaxing against the cheap plastic seat almost as quickly as it had tensed up.

“Hey, Cas,” Sam said, turning his great big stupid face towards Castiel with something of an apologetic smile on his lips.

Dean’s eye twitched, because what the hell? “Mornin’, feathers. So what did Hugh Hefner have to share that was so vitally important?”

Castiel slid into the seat next to Dean. He looked down at his hands and contemplated Dean’s question. “Balthazar has been keeping an eye on Azrael for me,” he said at length, reaching out to fiddle with a packet of sugar. “Azrael has always been a loose cannon, temperamental and unpredictable. I thought it was prudent to keep an eye on him just in case.”

The angel glanced up just as the waitress returned with coffee and a menu for him. He glanced at the menu then up at her, but he could have been an empty chair for all the attention he got from her. The brunette leaned close to Dean and touched his hand. “Is there anything else I can get you, sugar?” she asked.

Castiel noticed she’d undone two more buttons on her blouse and was showing a nearly unseemly amount of bosom. He caught edges of her thoughts which mostly revolved around the things she seemed to think Dean would do to her. He had no doubt that Dean would be a ready participant in her little daydreams, if he wasn’t present that was. Or rather if they weren’t whatever they were to each other at the moment.

Dean shuffled back a few inches to let Castiel sit on the seat beside him, turning a small grin the angel’s way which was completely ignored. Cas seemed preoccupied, worried even, about Azrael and Dean’s eyes slid automatically to Sam’s. They both shared a knowing, long-suffering look. Allies turning south on them wasn’t something new, but once, just once, Dean could’ve hoped things would go their way.

No such luck, apparently, and he didn’t share Castiel’s faith in his angelic family playing nice; the thought that Azrael may be playing them all wasn’t a particularly surprising one, especially considering his vessel had made off with one of the stones that supposedly were the keys to Lucifer’s cage.

“You sure know how to pick your allies, Cas,” Dean muttered, regretting it instantly. He knew Castiel was probably desperate, what with whatever war was happening up there and that shithead Raphael fresh on his trail. And he also knew Cas and desperate together hand in hand meant that all of his determined, frankly alien attention turned towards his goal with white hot intent, and that he was acting in ways that were probably unsavory even for the angel; especially for the angel, really, if that whole debacle with Crowley was any indication.

He cleared his throat. “Any way to know what’s going on up there? Or, if you know, maybe you could, I dunno, share?” he finally added, trying to keep that hint of annoyance at being told only skirting and dry edges of the story from his voice.

The waitress more or less saved the conversation from sinking into despair and anger, showing up with two empty cups which she quickly filled with piping hot coffee. She also showed up with a not-very-subtly unbuttoned blouse. Dean grinned into his cup; this was more like it, less doomsday and more play. She turned massive brown eyes—dammit, Dean caught himself just in time, because he’d almost wished for blue there, for a second—towards him and smiled again.

“Coffee for my gloomy friend here, sweetheart. And maple syrup—lots of it—with the stack,” he answered, and, oh God, she bent forward and nodded, affording him a glimpse of some not unremarkable cleavage—who was he kidding? He could almost see all the way down her shirt to her freakin’ knees—before sauntering away.

Sam coughed, took a sip of his coffee, shot Dean another unwarranted glare and turned towards Castiel. Again. “But Azrael’s on your side, right? I mean, he squared off against Raphael at Bobby’s place.”

“Azrael is as always on Azrael’s side,” Castiel said with a little shrug. “What he did at Bobby’s place…” He shifted in discomfort. “Is still disturbing.” The memory of that fight made him want to clench his wings tightly to his back and shiver.

He did shiver. But he held his peace until the waitress returned with a cup for him and filled it up for him. He nodded his thanks and set about doctoring his coffee with creamer and sugar. He sipped it, then added more sugar. 

He pushed the menu away. “Azrael mutilated Raphael’s wings when they fought at Bobby’s, and has been provoking Raphael to keep them from healing correctly.” He glanced between the two brothers and hoped he wouldn’t have to go into detail about why the damage to Raphael’s wings was so troubling.

The waitress returned with Sam and Dean’s meals. She set them down with a special smile for Dean and took Cas’ menu. He declined to order and she left with another flirty look at Dean.

“Oh, I guess that’s… bad, then?” Sam intoned from his seat, but Dean hardly heard him. He was focused, for now, entirely on Cas; because the angel’s shoulders had slumped forward as he’d talked, as he’d explained what Dean had actually seen in that yard. It hadn’t made a whole freaking lot of sense then, and it still didn’t, but the thought that Castiel was uncomfortable with the whole shebang of going for the wings didn’t go a long way towards making him inclined to trust Azrael again.

Even as far as he could fling his diminutive vessel. 

He took one look at Castiel’s face and decided right then and there that he’d get back to the whole wing story soon enough. Only not here, because, dammit, he had no desire to be labeled as completely fucking insane and the waitress was now sidling back their way with more coffee and two steaming plates.

She deposited a somewhat reasonable one in front of Sammy and a monstrous thing made of piled-high pancakes and sausages in front of Dean. His eyes almost crossed at the smell wafting up from the table, and, absorbed as he was by the very real promise of food, he didn’t even manage to turn his attention back to the girl until she’d walked off again.

Damn.

He caught a part of himself going ‘Really? Last night, remember? Castiel—Cas—is sitting right next to you’ and almost felt sheepish about how much he wanted that easy grin and stupid, pointless banter that he knew wouldn’t lead anywhere. But it was just that; easy, brainless, somewhat empty but ultimately enjoyable despite its brevity. He sighed, blinked, then plastered on a fake grin which he knew Sammy would gobble up and dug into his breakfast.

It was good, but at this point he could’ve gorged himself on ashes and not noticed. His thigh was hot and felt half not like his own where it was nonchalantly pressed against Castiel’s, making concentration difficult precisely because Cas seemed to be doing his best to ignore him and he had no idea why. He shot the angel a knowing look as he shovelled a huge forkful of pancakes into his mouth.

Finally, when it became clear that that was the extent of the information they’d get from Castiel, he leaned back and frowned, trying to catch the angel’s gaze. “What happens if Raphael can’t heal his wings?” he asked, his cold mask of indifference not quite obliterating the fact that he was worried as hell that Castiel would get hurt, that Raphael was going to find a way to usurp him.

Castiel sighed and closed his eyes. He was going to have to explain exactly what angels’ wings were. “An angel’s wings are more than just limbs,” he said, turning the coffee mug in his hands. “They are our connection to the host, where we get our grace from. If they’re damaged or,” he paled a little and shot them both a panicky look of something close to terror. “removed,” he whispered the word.

“We cease to be angels, but we don’t fall and become human. The angel gets trapped as something in between human and angel.” He stared into his coffee. “Keeping Raphael’s wings damaged is hindering the way Raphael heals, and the way his grace recharges. It’s effectively keeping him out of the fighting.”

He sipped his coffee and sighed. “What Azrael did was… distressing,” he said at last.

Dean waited until Cas had finished speaking before digging back into his meal. He was frowning, shovelling lukewarm pancakes into his mouth as his mind raced. There’d been some massive gnarly scarring on Castiel’s wings, that much he remembered. What it actually meant now he wasn’t sure. He still had no idea why so many angels would risk so much to grab one poor bastard out of the pit, and he was even less clear on exactly how Castiel could have shouldered all of that.

And he’d never even gotten proper thanks, either, just attitude from Dean and both his and his brother’s dependant, nagging prayers and constant requests for help, for more, for him to drop the heavenly side and do something. Now he felt a bit like an ass about all that. 

“Okay, so we don’t have to like it. It’s still keeping Raphael off your trail though, right?” Sam said, voice gone a bit quiet.

Dean realized that all the time Cas had spent being dragged around with his wings manifested he might as well have been walking with a massive handicap, a huge and glaring achilles’ heel which he’d never even told Dean about. His breakfast pretty much turned to cardboard against his tongue, tasteless and bland, and Dean gave up for now, pushing his plate away and sitting back.

He didn’t like the look on Castiel’s face one bit either, and, because he wasn’t sure what he should say or do, simply snuck a hand under the table and gave the angel’s thigh a light squeeze. Though how that could be reassuring when compared with the memory of one of his brothers mutilating the other, he had no clue.

He still kept his hand there, and hopefully it’d get his point across—though what the point was he wasn’t sure himself, but fuck it, he was well and truly sick of psychoanalyzing himself when it came to Cas—even as his mouth ran off with him. “That’s not cool. I mean, really, I don’t like the bastard much, but it sounds like Azrael went for his nuts with a sledgehammer,” he grumbled.

Sammy nodded, though he did raise an eyebrow at Dean’s discarded plate. And raised the other one with a pointed glance at Dean’s suspiciously missing hand. Dean ignored him, ploughing blithely forward. “Cas, your wings are sort of… you know…” He frowned, paused, tried again. “You’re okay, right? Not like, hovering between states of being or anything?”

Castiel snorted. “That is actually a close analogy, Dean. Hitting below the belt for humans and attacking wings for angels are fairly close in social stigma.” He knocked his leg back against Dean’s lightly and reached down to brush his finger gently over the back of Dean’s hand.

“Azrael has never really cared about being stigmatized, but others still find it all very…uncomfortable.” He sounded uncertain about that. “I find it uncomfortable as well.” He sighed and watched the waitress do her best to shimmy closer to their table without being called away. An older, possibly wiser waitress kept calling her away.

Castiel gave Dean a calculating look. “My wings are fine,” he said at length. “Wings can also be used to tell the state that an angel’s grace is in, what he does while in the host, what battles he’s fought.” He shrugged slightly. 

“Going into hell affected mine but not entirely in an adverse matter.” He cleared his throat and chuckled. “Few angels have ever pulled a soul from hell, the state of my wings is supposedly quite intriguing.” He shrugged as if he’d seen no evidence to prove that.

Dean found himself on the receiving end of another of Castiel’s slightly-too-intense and just a tad awkward stares and coughed, slipping his hand free and reaching for his cup of untouched coffee. It was lukewarm now, tasted like acid with a side-order of bitter death, but he drained it anyway, if only for something to distract himself with.

This was stupid and ridiculous; he should’ve known taking this thing they had all the way up to mind-blowing sex would be a bad idea. Sleeping with your co-workers? Never, ever wise. Because for a second there he’d almost entertained the idea of letting his hand creep up Castiel’s thigh and the comment about ‘intriguing wings’ hadn’t helped matters much.

He could think of a fair few words to describe Cas’ wings. Intriguing didn’t really make the list.

“Maybe there’s something there we can use, then. I mean, if angels’ wings are as important and vulnerable as you say, we could research the spell you said Azrael used. Who knows how useful that could be?” Sam said, pushing away his own plate as well.

Castiel jerked like Sam had reached out and smacked him hard enough for him to feel it. He stared at the younger Winchester with wide, stunned blue eyes. “No!” He snapped out quickly flat out disgust in his tone. “Absolutely not.” This was full on Angel of the Lord speaking to something less than human. The lights in the dinner dimmed threateningly. 

Dean shot his brother something close to a glare; of course Sammy’d go there, and apparently Cas wasn’t too happy about the idea, if the electrical flickering was any indication. A few patrons glanced up but that seemed to be the extent of the reaction, thankfully. “Dude. Are you suggesting we stop the next apocalypse by going for the heavenly equivalent of a knee to the crotch? Classy, bro,” he sneered. 

“I’m just saying it could be a good idea to have a backup plan.”

“Yeah? Your ideas haven’t been all that stellar lately,” Dean shot back, regretting the words instantly as he saw them shatter whatever easy mood he and Sammy had been rocking lately.

Sam’s face fell, his forehead creasing in a pained frown. “God, you’re never going to drop that, are you? Fine.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet and slapped a few dollar bills on the table before sliding out of his seat. 

“The hell are you going?”

“Back to the motel. Later, Cas,” Sam gritted out before whipping around and walking towards the door.

“You ain’t taking my damn car!” Dean shot after him.

“I’m walking!”

And he was gone, shimmying his long body past a couple milling near the door; they looked mildly offended at having been brusquely shoved out of his way.

Dean huffed out a frustrated sigh. “Well, that’s nice. Fuck.” He raked a hand through his short hair and turned back towards Cas, plastering a fake, hopeful grin onto his face. “Keystones should work though, right? We don’t need a damn backup plan; we have a good plan A. And I like your wings, angel, for what it’s worth” he added in a low slur, tacking on the name in an attempt to lighten the mood again.

Of course, the busty brunette who’d served their table chose that exact moment to approach them. Dean saw her face go from flirtatious to slightly disgusted. 

“Will that be all?” she asked, and there was none of the earlier heat in her voice.

Dean sighed, nodding. “Yeah, sure. I think we’re done here. Cas?” he answered, jerking his head towards the door.

Castiel stared after Sam as he left the diner, reaching out with his grace to double check and make sure that Sam was still all Sam. 

The angel glanced at Dean, having only been half hearing what Dean had said. “Whatever you say, Dean,” he said automatically and stood up. He was heading out of the diner even before Dean responded. He could tell his voice in the host was spiralling off in discomfort and disgust. Several of his brothers and sisters called out to him to ensure he was alright.

It was nothing to tell them he was fine, just dealing with yet another of his humans’ uncomfortable habits. They sympathized with him and went back to their duties. He stood next to the Impala, looked at the dent he’d left in the hood and reached out with a touch of grace to fix it.

Dean followed Cas after paying—he left exactly the required amount of change for a tip and not a damn cent more—and exiting the diner. He was actually still hungry, but his stomach was roiling; he’d figured Sammy’s suggestion wouldn’t be well-received, but the reaction they’d gotten had been pretty explosive. Not to mention slightly terrifying, but Dean wasn’t quite up to admitting that out loud.

Because Cas was Cas, and he had to believe that whatever bad-ass angelic mojo he had at the end of his fingers—lithe, strong, just a tad distracting, and, dammit, he was not doing this right now—wouldn’t get turned on either he or Sammy. Again; he had no desire to be on the receiving end of those fists a second time.

Castiel was already standing stiffly near his car when he approached; he watched the dent in the hood disappear without leaving so much as a mark and grinned, reaching out to place a tentative hand on Cas’ shoulder.

“Hey. Sammy’s an ass sometimes, man. It’s like he’s too stupid to know there’s some things you don’t consider doing, even when the shit has hit the fan something fierce,” he breathed, choosing not to mention that he’d done some unsavory stuff he wasn’t proud of himself, even before hell. Especially before hell. After that, well… There’d been Alastair, but he figured it wasn’t wise to bring that one up just then.

“Thanks for that, by the way,” he nodded at the car’s hood. “Thought I’d have to spend another weekend fixin’ her up.” Dean essayed a small grin. “You got a hard skull, Cas.”

Castiel frowned and looked at Dean. “That was more than Sam being an ass, Dean. What if I suggested he start drinking demon blood again, simply because it was a good back up plan?” He stepped away from Dean and tried to collect his thoughts. 

Looking up at Dean, he couldn’t hide how much Sam’s suggestion bothered him. He knew what he just said would would cause volatile reaction from Dean. But it was exactly the same concept or close enough it would make Dean understand. 

“Dean,” He sighed and looked at the hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know what to do about this. I’m afraid that one of my most powerful allies may be a snake in the grass, but if I call him out about it and am wrong…”

It was not something he wanted to think about. “I cannot fight two archangels.” He just really wanted to pretend he didn’t have these doubts about one of his brothers, that he couldn’t have these doubts. But all he could do was feel doubt about this. It didn’t seem right. Maybe it was because Azrael was a black sheep among his family, or that Azrael never did anything just because. That he was as chance and unpredictable as the wind.

“That’s nothing alike and you know it, Cas. The demon thing wasn’t a damn backup plan, it was just an all over stupid thing to do. And as far as I’m concerned you have suggested shit to me in the past that I didn’t want to do, man. Don’t give me that double standard bullshit,” Dean hissed back, forced to back off when a group of teenagers exited the diner. 

They gave both he and Cas some strange looks and Dean stuck his hands firmly into the pockets of his jacket, leaning against the hood of the car with a heavy sigh. “Shit. This is all just… I don’t want to go for the nuts, Cas. That’s not me. Sammy just doesn’t think before he speaks sometimes. I mean, he suggested we side with Gabriel back when we were sure he was nothing more than a trickster. I ended up dying about too many times to count, apparently. I’m… gonna talk to him.”

Another sigh, and Dean gave a passing couple a sidelong glance, waiting until they were out of sight to speak. “So don’t call the short fucker out on it; just keep an eye on him, maybe get… Don’t you have heaven’s holy equivalent of the army’s standard troop up there on your side? Send a couple goons to keep watch?” he asked, staring forlornly at the empty stretch of road between the diner and, somewhere a couple miles further, the motel.

This was beyond out of his depth, right here. He remembered, vividly, the first time he and Cas had squared off against Raphael, how Castiel had seemed pretty damned certain he wasn’t going to survive then. They’d been through Michael and Lucifer and Zachariah—though Dean wasn’t sure exactly what that creepy bastard had been—since then, but it didn’t seem to make a damn bit of difference.

“I’m gonna take a drive. Give Sam a chance to cool off, log on to his damn computer and watch a porno or something.” He pushed away from the car, shrugged awkwardly. “Far as I’m concerned, all we can do right now is lay low, go after those stones like it’s going out of fashion and try not to get on anyone’s bad side.” He opened the door to the passenger’s side, debated for half a second while chewing on his lower lip thoughtfully and finally added, “You comin’?”


	15. New Administration

The next few weeks went by in a blur, a flurry of hunting for the next couple stones on the list and a rush of trying to get there before anyone from down below figured out what they doing. They ran into two more of the fallen, Dean ended up with a dislocated shoulder and Sammy pouted for a day because Dean'd taken the hit meant for him. After the next stone--a shopping mall, of all places, hidden in a stupidly chic boutique that sold gemstone jewelry for the rich and bored--Sam suggested they might want to no longer touch the damned things, seeing as they clearly tended to affect them.

This had been said from behind a massive mountain of shopping bags, as Sam had sheepishly explained that he'd been unable to stop himself.

Dean gave him so much shit about the clothes--silk shirts!--that Sammy eventually turned right 'round, returned all the stuff and came back with two pairs of cotton gloves.

Two stones later the gloves didn't make much of a difference, because the damn thing had totally slipped from Sammy's gloved fingers--the stone was slick and gorgeous, a weird, glowing shade of deep burgundy--and Dean had reached his hand out almost unconsciously.

Ten hours later he'd eaten his fill of more pie than he could ever remember eating before and had been indulging in a marathon viewing of Casa Erotica--Sammy had left after the first five minutes, claiming to want to preserve his dubious sanity--when Cas had shown up, worried that Dean had gotten entangled in another stone's power.

He certainly didn't regret that one, even if Sam's bitchface upon coming back and seeing the state of the motel room had been legendary and he'd been forced to more or less play clean-up maid. He still didn't remember how they'd managed to nearly break through a wall and had vowed in a slightly slurred voice that never again would he mix whiskey, magical keystones of want and angels with way too much stamina for Dean's health. Sammy hadn't appreciated that one either.

Regardless, the near constant stress of never knowing in advance what they'd be facing accumulated quick, and despite the fact that they were now four stones closer to their goal, Dean was beat. He was beat with a capital 'B', exhausted, sick and tired of going in blind to catch a stone and finding some unknown creature they'd never heard of before in its place. The motel they were staying at, halfway on the road back to Sioux Falls, was musty and old and had definitely seen better days, but both of them were asleep before they could even rock-paper-scissors for the right to shower first.

Azrael for the most part hated hell, and demons, and damned sprits. But all these things where a means to a very, very needed end for the Archangel. So he strolled through the remodeled hell like a shining beacon of heavenly glory. It was more work to keep himself hidden from Heaven and burning so brightly in hell.

Around him damned souls cried out in terror and pain at the touch of the like of his grace, than they fell silent in awe or terror. The demons where all his already, every demon alive save one had already bowed to him and his fallen. But still it was necessary to remind the vermin what their master was. So he spread fiery wings of pure angelic grace out around him as he walked.

Behind him two and four of his mostly loyal fallen Angels followed. Mephistopheles his second and his scapegoat, Bernael who played Mephistopheles’ second walked side by side a few steps behind him. Penemuel, Qemuel, Malpas, and Belial formed ranks behind them. They where lesser sparks of light in the darkness that where drowned out by Azrael and his glory.

The Archangel in his vessel stood head and shoulders shorter than any of the other angels with him, yet he radiated power like a beacon. A thought and the slightest touched of grace sent the doors of Crowley’s throne room bursting open. 

The throne room looked more like bureaucratic office then a throne room. A large chair that looked to be upholstered in leather, sat behind a desk filled with in and outboxes with paperwork. The sight of it caused Azrael to snort in amusement. It was empty of the self proclaimed king of hell, though one of his hellhounds was standing before the desk.

Rather than killing the beast, Azrael reached out with his grace and bent its will to his own. Once he had the hellhound tamed to his hand he walked around the desk and sat in the chair. The angels that had come with him moved to stand against the wall on either side of the doors like guard. Azrael himself settled into the chair put his feet up on the desk. He waited just like that absently petting his new pets head for Crowley to return.

Crowley was in a foul mood when he exited the stark building that housed most of the creatures he was currently busy grilling for information on the best way to wriggle himself a slice of purgatory’s power. He’d been going in circles for months, and with that damnable, fruity angel reneging on their deal, he’d found himself doing most of the brunt work, and doing it the old fashioned way. Which took time.

And while in other matters Crowley was content to let things happen at their own pace, he was starting to get really antsy about having this done and over with. Hopefully before it all came crashing down on his face. Really, he should’ve just buggered off somewhere private and secret the moment the winged idiot had gone back to the Winchesters like a beaten dog to its masters.

Fucking sentimental angels.

This latest little interrogation hadn't been a complete waste of his time, however. A little voice known as instinct had told him to push when he’d heard passing mention of ‘stones, bright as the sun, that suck you up dry’ amidst the gurgling hisses of a rather pathetic vampire. Just a low-bred dog, really, who’d been unlucky enough to fall into his master’s confidence. Crowley had gotten just enough information out of him for this day not to be a total waste.

He was breaking out the Craig—glorious and amber, it almost made his mood turn from rotten and sour to almost bearable—when something extremely unpleasant nagged at the edge of his senses. Something annoying and worrying, something that felt exactly like someone yanking hard on the reins of his power.

The glass crashed to the floor of his mansion, ruining two rugs, splattering against his oak desk and wasting nearly forty dollars worth of scotch as he took himself downstairs on the double, landing in his office and staring around with widened eyes.

Six angels—six feathery bastards—and, of course, Azrael, the smug fucker.

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” he blurted out, face going near purple in shock and rage. 

Azrael smiled broadly at Crowley and patted the hellhounds head. “Hello, Crowley. We need to talk.” He said smugly. He reached out with his grace and grabbed a hold of Crowley and pinned him in place. “I think a proper introduction is required, yeah?”

He stood and walked around the desk hellhound on his heels like it was a lapdog. “I’m Samael, pleased to meet you.” He said leaning towards Crowley his voice hushed and conspiratorial. “I run hell.” He didn’t even bother to hide his glee.

“Do you know how easy it was for me to take over this place?” He looked around with a lazy smile. “All I had to do it pin down my fallen brother’s,” He bowed slightly to the other six angels in the room. “Tell them to find all you demons and give you two choices, bow down or,” He snapped his fingers. “Die.”

Azrael sat on the edge of the desk and crossed his legs and smiled at Crowley. “So I have a deal for you my dear predecessor to the throne.”

He was well and truly fucked; Crowley knew it even before the surge of power snapped tight around him, before even that little five-foot bitch patted his hellhound’s head—his own favorite hellhound, the gnarliest one that looked like it’d battled a chainsaw and lost—like he had any right at all to be there. He knew it because even if Azrael was a twitchy little coward in Crowley’s honest opinion, he’d also been nearly impossible to follow.

And that hadn’t boded well. Really, he shouldn’t have been surprised. 

“Oh, bugger,” Crowley muttered as the name ‘Samael’ fell from the archangel’s lips. “You’re going to try to pull off the fallen angel shtick without actually falling, you overgrown bird? Hell won’t follow something like you.” He paused, considering the wisdom of what he was saying—and secretly wished he’d gone on that extended vacation instead of lingering here like a bloody newly-turned, mewling fool—before shrugging.

Or, he would’ve shrugged if the smug little shit hadn't kept him absolutely immobilized with the force of his stinking angelic grace. “At least Lucifer didn't reek of light and rainbows and puppies, mate.”

Tentatively, he reached out for other hellhounds, for the multitude of demons he knew should have been lurking just in reach, and found nothing he could latch on to. Azrael wasn’t bluffing; how he hadn't picked up on the dwindling masses of souls at his beck and call, Crowley could only blame on his—bloody stupid—plan to keep himself off the map of hell and apparently conveniently distracted upstairs with his search for purgatory.

The curses that left his mouth should’ve manifested as angry, dark, twisting shapes, should’ve escaped as pure hellish light, should have been a whole lot more impressive than a few hissed out, heavily-accented words. Fucking moronic, useless, stinking angels.

“What’s your brilliant deal, then, birdie?” he added on the heels of his cursing, still a bit blue in the face.

Azrael watched Crowley struggling and groping for power that wasn’t his. “Oh I’m not going to fall, pet.” He chortled. “I have plans that are a bit above your pay grade. See I don’t want hell, not really. But you demons are damned useful for what I have planed.”

He reached out to pat Crowley’s cheek. “I know you helped the Winchesters to stuff my big brothers in their cage, which is why I haven’t bothered to just turn you to ash. You and I have similar out looks on life. We look out for ourselves first. So if you want to have your throne back, and I’ll give it back to you, and let you rule hell while I tend to other things.”

“So first things first, bow down and swear your –questionable- loyalty to me and when I’m done with my plans you get hell back good as new,” He tilted his head to the side. “If not better, and all me and my feathery brethren will be gone from earth leaving you to do as you have always done.”

“Just like that? I play your little game, let you round amok in my lovely garden, and once you’re done with…” Crowley reached up to wave his hand and found he could, so he stretched a bit, glad to be rid of the constricting binds of grace. “Well, whatever the hell it is you fruits are planning, you’ll happily relinquish my gorgeous, Italian leather upholstered throne?”

It sounded too good to be true. And it probably was. But Crowley had heard the sneer in Azrael’s voice, and likely the angel wasn't even aware of the way he’d voiced his request. ‘Questionable loyalty’ indeed. That was better than most deals he got, and if the angel had done it on purpose he’d actually be a little peeved, because as far as massive, gaping loopholes went it really was brilliant. He could admire a well-worded deal when he saw one, even if he hadn’t thought of it himself.

“I really hate to let you have the garden, birdie. No telling what sort of horrid things you’ll do to it while it’s in your diminutive hands but…” He rolled his eyes, turned and huffed at the gaggle—flock? Flock would possibly be more appropriate here—of lesser angels standing behind him. His office had never been so annoyingly bright before. He scowled.

“Fine.” Crowley tested the weakened bonds of grace and found he could lower himself slightly, which he did, the exact amount of inches and angle required to count as a ‘bow’ and not a millimetre more. “But I want it painted back exactly the way it was, thank you. Don’t you fucking redecorate with lutes and cherubs.” Another roll of his eyes. “I, Crowley, swear my questionable loyalty to you, you smug bastard, until such time as you choose to vamoose from my lovely patch of land, and all the legions at your command and such, blah blah blah. I’ll have a contract drafted if you like.”

He straightened up, winked at the burliest angel next to him—brutes, these birds, and this one looked about as dumb as they came—and smiled sweetly at Azrael. “Seal it with a kiss, love?”

Azrael snorted and watched as Crowley bowed. “No, I have no intentions of redecorating your ‘garden’, pet,” he said with a wave of his hands. He loosened the coils of grace around Crowley until only a single coil twisted around his ankle like a shackle. “Please, your crude manner of sealing a deal can be saved for humans and lesser angels, if you fail to obey I’ll pull you a part in tiny increments. Trust me, I’ll carve my own grace out and become human before I stay in hell.”

“I even have a job for you, tailor made. You’re going to be my complaints department between the demon troops and myself. My little brothers are of course officers commanding the shock troops.” Azrael nodded and two of the six angels disappeared. 

“You’ll report to Mephistopheles.” He nodded to the burly angel Crowley had winked at; the angel in question adjusted his red suit jacket. “If you’re questioned by any of the usual angels from heaven, he is in charge down here and is the one playing Samael. Understood?”

“Crystal clear, my liege,” Crowley answered, voice dripping with sarcasm as he pulled his leg upward a bit. It figured that he’d get demoted spectacularly to a low-end desk job, of course. And have this stinking mess of angelic soul witchery tethering him to the archangel. Lovely. Lovely and degrading. Just the way to end a fucking disastrous day. “Though I’m disappointed I won’t get to suck face with that hot little number that should’ve been on my racks months ago.”

He refrained from pointing out that the poor bastard in the red suit would probably end up torn to shreds as soon as heaven realized what was going on; Azrael—or Samael, he couldn't keep up with all these bloody angel names—really was a slippery, conniving little twerp. And the shackle would make it marginally more difficult to take advantage of the lovely terms of their mutual deal, which he intended to do as soon as possible.

Crowley knew just who to let in on this little deal; it wasn’t a great stretch of the imagination to figure out just who would be utterly thrilled to find out their angelic friend had just double-crossed them. Besides, those fool Winchesters had apparently been getting their hands on some serious firepower while all this madness had been happening, and a chance to get in on that action was just too good to pass up.

“I’ll just go and settle into my new office then, shall I?” Crowley muttered sulkily, taking himself out of that stinking, too-close space—even though theoretically it had no boundaries, the air had actually been starting to feel a little stale; bloody angels again—and found himself standing in front of the very long, very restless line of demons just clamoring to know what was really going on.

“Oh, bugger it all,” he repeated with feeling.

Azrael chuckled and followed Crowley to his new office with a whisper of a thought. “You’ll also remain in charge of the crossroads demons, pet.” He said looking at the line of demons with amusement. “And you’ll be ripping our dearest Abrianna’s contract. If you need anything, tell Mephistopheles and he might provide for you.” 

With that the archangel vanished after tightening the shackle around Crowley’s ankle. He had other things to do. A thought sent his angels marshalling the troops of hell into order. There was training to be done before he was ready to act.

He sent Bernael to go shake the Winchesters up to make it look like it was Crowley’s doing. That should make any plans the demon had harder. After that order, he fluttered off back to heaven to kick Raphael around again.

Bernael’s vessel was statuesque and looked like everything an angel was supposed to be. He preferred to drive rather than pop around like his brothers did. He liked driving his Aston Martin DB5, it was made in 1964 and was the same color, silver, as his vessel’s eyes. He found the Winchesters and their terrible American made piece of crap down some nondescript two lane black top.

He sped up on their tail, getting a little too close before changing into the opposing lane and roaring up next to the impala in a clear challenge to race. Not that anything could really challenge his DB5 but it would be a lovely ice breaker.

“I keep telling you, man. Anything they recorded after ’81 is pure crap; get that tape away from me,” Dean grumbled, batting at his brother’s hand.

“God, fine. It’s not like I suggested plugging the iPod back in.”

“Sammy. If I’ve told you once…”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Shotgun shuts his cakehole. Jeez.”

The worst of the weird tension between them had evaporated pretty soon after they’d taken to the road again, for which Dean was immensely glad. He couldn’t have stomached all this driving if they’d still been at each others’ throats. 

“You know it, Sasquatch,” he drawled, ready to switch back to some proper music when he noticed headlights blinking annoyingly—and regularly—straight into his eyes. He glanced, blinked, struggled to see who the hell would be dumb enough to tail them so damned close in near pitch darkness. Back in went AC/DC, the sound of the radio nearly drowned out by a glorious purr nearly right next to Dean’s ear as the car that’d been following them overtook the impala. 

“Oh, sweet hell, Sammy, would you look at that?” he hissed.

“What? Jesus, what?” Sam shot back, clearly worried until he caught sight of the car. “Oh my God, really?”

“I gotta say, man, she is gorgeous.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Don’t let the impala hear you.”

Dean grinned, the sleek Astin Martin next to their car rumbling twice, nearly overtaking them completely. He pushed the impala harder, just enough to follow the other car; he wouldn’t risk a full on race, because he wasn’t that stupid and Sammy was in the car with him. Mostly, he had to admit, because Sammy was in the car with him; if he hadn’t been, Dean would already be gunning it, dark road or not.

“What are you doing?” Sam’s voice was worried, eyes shifting between the DB5 beyond the curve of the driver’s side window and Dean’s face. “Dean?”

“Relax, Christ. Just… having a bit of fun with this eurotrash douche,” Dean answered, though really the car was gorgeous, he’d have to admit. She purred a bit too smooth for his taste—his baby’s rumble sounded a lot better, in his opinion—and looked small enough to crush in one fist, but the sleek curves were jaw-dropping. If this turned out to be one of that smarmy Balthazar’s appearances, Dean was going to be severely pissed; he really wanted the driver to be some sort of busty blonde, all slim curves and coy smiles.

“Yeah, a James Bond girl,” he muttered a bit stupidly, grinning into space.

He heard the snorted laugh next to him but didn’t pay Sammy any attention, forcing the impala gently into a curve as he overtook the DB5 just enough to let the other driver know he was game. 

“Porn. Reality. Dean, how many times will I have to tell you they’re two different things? And if you crash the car with me in it, I swear, I’m gonna haunt you.”

Bernael turned his head to watch as the impala over took him. He laughed and speed up so they where even, his DB5 was a fine piece of European machinery and he was seated in the left side of the car. He looked into the driver seat of the impala and lowered the sun glasses he was wearing.

A bit of grace made a glamour that caused his eyes to flicker black just like a demon’s. If anything would catch the Winchester’s attention it would be a demon taunting them. He made sure at least one of them saw his eyes. 

The DB5 roared and he shifted gears and sped a head of them. He sped up further pushing the smaller car to overtake the impala and push a head. Bernael laughed and pushed his sunglasses back into place as he drove. He kept just a head of them and used just enough force to fling an oncoming minivan off the road just for the fun of it.

He was going to make them want to take him down. Just like he’d been ordered, then he was going to kick them around and tell them the king of hell had sent him. It would be like poetry.

Dean glanced over, ready to shoot the driver a brilliant grin when he approached the car again; a passing truck in the opposite lane gave him a few seconds’ light to see into the car, and he had just enough time to see the guy seated there. Almost enough time to be disappointed, and more than enough time to see the guy’s eyes flash black for a second as he reached up and pulled down his sunglasses.

“Fuck!” he cursed, the DB5 roaring ahead of them as Dean gunned the engine and frantically reached down to turn off the radio.

Sammy stood up straight in his seat. “Are you really doing this, Dean?”

“It’s a demon,” he hissed back, and both he and Sam flinched as a minivan traveling the other way went barreling off the road in a whirl of screeching tires and flying gravel. The Astin Martin thundered onward and Dean followed, the impala rumbling loud enough to rattle his teeth. “Anybody else know where we’re going? ‘Cause it sure as hell looks like that guy is after the same thing we are.”

“Uh, no. I mean—… Jesus,” Sam hissed, jerked sideways a few inches in his seat as the car swerved to change lanes and overtake a puttering old sedan. “Not anymore than the previous ones, at least. I guess someone downstairs just caught on.”

“Yeah, well… We can’t let him have it. Shit.” If only the road was a little more deserted, they could try to shoot the thing’s tires out, get it to skid out and finish the bastard off. But there were cars on both lanes, not many but enough that they couldn’t risk it; even this was stupid, because if they got arrested again, no amount of fake IDs would hold up to the mounds of information the FBI had on them both after their few escapades with the law.

“Sammy, get the shotgun. If I can get us close on an empty stretch, we can just blast his face off.”

There was a pause before Sam twisted and wriggled his long body into the backseat to shuffle under it. “I don’t like this plan, for the record.”

Bernael hummed to himself as he drove, carelessly shoving the cars in his way of the road as he roared a long. This was more fun than he’d had in years playing with mortals. Oh he was leaving a path that anyone could follow. He swung the DB5 on to the nearest off ramp and made sure they could see he had.

Still humming he stopped at a road side dinner and left that DB5 parked in front in of it. He walked inside and ordered himself a nice glass of tea. Of course American diners being American diners he got a tall glass of iced tea.

The fallen angel playing demon had just enough time to butcher everyone in the dinner for the mistake. The two middle aged waitresses, the fat ass fry cook, the family of four, the newlyweds, the couple in their golden years, and the trucker. He pulled them all apart, conjured himself a nice cup’a and sat on one of the stools with his legs crossed, sipping it. 

His suit was tailored to him and a slivery blue grey that matched his car, his dress shirt was black as where his shoes. Bernael removed his sun glasses and tucked them into his breast pocket. The ancient radio in the diner was playing some cheerful song from the forties. 

“Change of plans, Sammy,” Dean gritted out as he swerved to avoid two cars that had been neatly thrown off the road. He saw, way out ahead and nearly out of range of his headlights, the sports car veer off the main road and onto a side ramp, and had to swerve again so he wouldn’t miss the exit. “Keep the shotgun, though, but I think… Aw, hell.”

“Crap, it’s a town,” Sam piped in unhelpfully as Dean drove along past a couple of roadside buildings. The usual shindig, a motel, a few gas stations and, sure enough, a grimy-looking diner, where the DB5 was parked, sticking out like a sore thumb between a run-down old GMC truck and a beat-up Chevy sedan. “This all smell fishy to you? Because I haven’t seen demons flinging entire cars out of their way before.”

“I hear you. But it’s just one demon, and I don’t think a heavy hitter would show up just to get one stone, do you?” Dean replied, parking the car a few dozen feet from the Aston Martin and killing the motor. “Salt shells in the trunk,” he added as he slid out of the car, meeting Sammy at the back of the impala and rifling through the trunk for the usual; bag of rock salt, holy water, Ruby’s knife, the colt.

“Maybe we should call Cas?” Sam offered as Dean moved cautiously behind the line of cars towards the diner’s entrance, hoping the cars would cover them from the lit windows inside. 

“Dude, it’s one demon. We can handle this. Cas isn’t our damned nanny,” he griped back. And that was true enough; he already felt guilty enough as it was, because, like it or not, Cas was just useful to have around. But they called—prayed, whatever—so often for help or advice or anything else they needed, that Dean was starting to get the feeling that the angel only answered because he had to. And, yeah, he wasn’t sure exactly why that bothered him so much, but it did.

“Okay. Guy looks like a friggin’ Swedish bodybuilder. Grey suit. Sunglasses,” Dean stated, moving closer to the door and waiting until Sammy had caught up.

“If there’s people in there?”

“We find a way to get them the hell out. Sanitation inspectors, whatever works. Ready?”

Sammy shrugged, flicked Ruby’s knife out of sight against his inner forearm.

Dean opened the door to the diner, went up the three steps leading to it, stepped through and froze for a brief few seconds. There’d been people in here all right; there weren’t anymore. Or at least, not in whole pieces. There were plenty of bits though, and he barely had the time for his brain to go ‘Yep, sanitation skit would’ve worked’ before his arm was raising itself to point the colt at the only figure currently not composed of miscellaneous wobbly bits of red gore. 

“Sorry for the mess lads, I’m afraid you Americans just don’t understand what proper tea is,” Bernael said, sipping his tea. He looked between the two brothers and sipped his tea. “So you boys are the infamous Winchesters.”

“I was expecting…something different.” He gestured and grabbed for the colt with a burst of power and yanked it out of Dean’s hand. “There’s no need for that sort of unpleasantness.” Bernael finished his tea and set his cup aside. 

Standing up, he adjusted his suit jacket and looked between the two of them. “Now the king of hell sent me here to deal with you two nightmares. Apparently, you’ve been quite problematic for him. So how would you like to do this, hmm? The easy way or do you want to be difficult?”

There was a distant hope they’d be difficult, because this was just so much fun. His orders were not to kill them, just to rough them up and leave. But difficult would leave him an opening to make a ‘mistake’. He'd managed to keep his suit perfectly clean and without a drop of blood from the people he’d taken apart. That pleased him, being clean was very important.

Dean's hissed curse died in his throat when the guy--smarmy as hell, though that was hardly surprising, considering who'd sent him--waved a hand and the colt got pretty much sucked out of his grip. He tried to hide the surprised sneer that crossed his features as Sam walked tentatively further into the diner, keeping Ruby's knife carefully tucked out of sight.

He shared a quick look with his brother; they'd have a bitch of a time getting this asshole cornered long enough to bust out the complete banishing ritual, but there was no way in hell he was letting his brother go freaking jedi mind-powers on this one. Sam's face was unreadable, and Dean hoped he'd gotten the point anyway.

"Yeah? Crowley's had more than one occasion to kick our bucket, pal," he shot back at the demon, secretly pleased at being called a demon's 'nightmare'. "Why'd he send your eurotrash ass now?"

It was stalling, he knew, but still a valid question. Because Crowley had had plenty of opportunity to get rid of them both, but somehow the pros for keeping them around had apparently always outweighed the cons. He wondered what had changed, feared it somehow had something to do with the keystones and for a moment he really wished they'd been ambushed coming back from this particular hunt instead of getting to it.

At least then he could've chucked the damn stone at this asshole's face and watch him flail around trying to evade whatever demon-sucking energy the thing possessed. 

"And, hey, we never do things the easy way," Dean added as he stepped closer--something unpleasant crunched underfoot, and he hoped to hell it wasn't a tooth--, nonchalantly sliding his hands into the pockets of his jacket. His fingers met the reassuringly cool surface of a flask of holy water. He could only hope he'd get a shot at using it and for a moment almost wished they still had the dubious advantage of being known as heaven and hell's most wanted meat suits.

Bernael chuckled and looked between the Winchesters. “Pity, you’re going to make me ruin my suit. It’s an Uomo,” he said with a sigh as he carefully dusted his suit off and sent both brothers a reproachful look. 

“And he sent me because you are collecting far more baubles than you should be.” He looked between them. “Let’s take this outside, shall we?” He flicked his wrist and sent them both flying out the windows of the diner.

Bernael strolled out of the diner. “Do you know what I’m going to do with your piece of shit car when I’m done with you?” he asked, sounding bored beyond belief. “I’m going have it crushed then made into keychains. All the demons down in the pit that want a piece of you two are going to have to suck my eurotrash cock to get one.”

"Yeah? Well I sure as fuck hope you didn't pay too much, man, 'cause that suit? Makes you look like a douche," Dean shot back as the demon stood up. He had about three seconds to feel proud of his comeback, and then something that felt like a freakin' freight train slammed into him, knocking the air from his lungs even as he felt himself being flung sideways like a rag doll. He flailed both hands up to protect his face, somehow managing to keep his grip on the flask of holy water as he went sailing against the window pane.

It shattered under his weight and then he was rolling across the paved parking lot, sliding to a stop against the tires of the run-down truck next to the diner. His entire right side was a singing cacophony of pain, glass embedded in nasty places all over his arm, hip and leg and he groaned, rolling himself over onto his uninjured side. Somewhere at his left, Sammy's voice rose in an answering hiss.

"Okay, wasn't expecting that. Dean. Dean, you okay?" 

Dean nodded, struggled onto his feet with some difficulty; apparently he'd hit the glass first, because Sam was at his side in a heartbeat, helping steady him as he leaned back against the truck. "M'fine. Fucker got the jump on... Move!"

The demon was approaching, and Dean's hand was still clutching the flask of holy water and the fucker was close enough to risk it. He flung his hand out just as Sammy ducked out of his way, the loosened cap flying open to splash a healthy dose of the stuff directly onto the demon's smug, grinning face.

Bernael frowned and looked down at the mixture of salt and holy water on his suit. He reached up to touch it and tried in vain to dust the mess off. “You’ve just signed your own personal express slips back to hell, boys. I’m going to drag you there myself,” he growled.

He ignored the exorcism Sam was reciting and flicked his wrist at the taller of the two brothers and sent him flying into the car behind him. “It’s about time both of you went back to hell, I think.” He continued stepping towards Dean. “Let’s see, big brother first? Or should I make Dean watch while I take Sammy apart?”

The fallen angel looked between the two and smirked. “Sammy first it is.” A burst of grace pinned Dean to the truck behind him and turned to stalk towards Sam. “I hear a little story that Death himself gave you a special wall to protect you from all those nasty memories from Lucifer and Michael hate-banging you in the box. I can’t wait to see your soul, Sammy. I bet it’s all dark and cloudy, just steps from that big jump from damned soul to Demon.”

“Wouldn’t that be delicious? The Winchesters as demons. Oh my, my, you two would be absolutely astonishingly good demons.” Bernael chuckled to himself.

The salt and water did absolutely nothing. The salt and water did -nothing-, and that was the point at which Dean realized that they hadn't thought this through. He had time to stare in puzzlement as the demon--powerful fucker that he was--patted his suit, had time for one mangled thought of, 'Fuck, should've called for backup, should've called Cas,' and then he was flying backwards, flattened against the truck as the demon turned away from him and stalked towards Sam.

Powerless, unable to even twitch his fingers, he watched helplessly as Sammy shuffled backwards, still trying to recite the damned exorcism.

"Sammy!" Dean roared, "Get the fucking colt!"

And as Sam finally stopped muttering the latin and dived to the side, Dean did the only damn thing he could do; he cursed, spat everything he had at the demon while mentally calling out for help. Because there was no way in hell he was watching this bastard hack at the wall separating his brother from his memories of hell. So he prayed, helpless and damn near freakin' desperate.

But not to God, because that'd be a damn waste of time. He prayed to Cas, pouring everything he had behind it and then adding some more, because he was pissed at himself for letting it get to this point. Highway 29, just a few miles past Omaha. Diner, red and white awning, flickering neons. Destroyed windows, derelict old GMC truck. The Impala with glass all over her windshield. Cas. Cas. Some demon a-hole going after Sammy. Cas!

He was panicking, he knew, but Sam was scuttling on the cement, cutting his hands on broken glass to try and get to his feet in his haste to run past the demon and back into the diner. And Dean -couldn't- watch this happen.

Bernael grabbed for Sam with his grace and hauled him up to his feet. “No, I don’t think you need to go for that colt,” He said with a chuckle as he strolled over to Sam. “This will be great fun.”

He drew back to punch Sam but something set him flying backwards into a truck. “Release them.” Castiel had heard Dean’s panicked prayers and torn himself from what he’d been doing in heaven to save them. 

He was surprised to find Dean and Sam facing a fallen angel. Said angel was picking himself up off a truck and scowling. “Castiel. I wasn’t aware you’d be joining us,” Bernael said once he was finally standing.

“You’re Bernael, aren’t you? Mephistopheles’ second,” Castiel said as he willed his angel blade into existence. 

“Oh, so you know ‘bout little old me. Marvelous.” Bernael lunged at Castiel and the two traded a series of blows that ended with Bernael landing on his DB5 and crushing it. The fallen angel vanished with his car.

Castiel looked between the two brothers and went to Dean’s side first. Dean was bleeding. “Dean are you alright?”

The familiar fluttering of feathers and wings hadn't felt this freakin' sweet in what felt like months; one minute Sam was being pulled upwards by whatever power this bastard possessed and the next Castiel was standing right behind the guy, flinging him into the side of the truck Dean was plastered against. The moment the guy crumpled Dean felt himself slide down the truck's side a few inches, released from that too-tight invisible grip almost instantly.

There was a flurry of movement somewhere above him for a while, but Dean could only search frantically for his brother; and Sam, Sam was up and moving towards him, thankfully whole and apparently not reduced to a gibbering mess. The wall was intact, the wall was intact, thank God, and for a few seconds it was all Dean could think about.

The crushing sound of metal screaming brought him back to his senses just as Sammy reached his side and he looked up to see the Aston Martin get nearly flattened as Castiel sent the bastard sailing right into it. Half a blink of an eye later and both car and asshole were gone, leaving the parking strangely empty. He breathed out a sigh of relief and tried to stand up straighter, wincing as his right side protested angrily. 

Cas was there right in front of him, hair all in disarray and blue eyes flaring with something Dean ever only saw when the angel somehow got pissed off. "I, uh... I'm okay. Ate a window with my face, but I'll live." He paused, managed a strained smile and reached out to clap a hand loosely onto Castiel's shoulder.

He wasn't -leaning- against Cas for support, nope, but, well, the angel felt like a damned stone wall underneath his hand so Dean figured he might as well take a bit of weight off his feet for a bit. "Thanks, Cas. Really, we fudged this one a bit. That fucker didn't even blink when we hosed him down. Said Crowley'd sent him." Dean turned a worried look at his brother. "Sammy?" he asked uncertainly.

Sam smiled, looking a bit ruffled but thankfully otherwise unharmed. "I'm good. No fiery visions or anything. I'm good, Dean."

"Oh thank fuck," he sighed, allowed himself a moment's breathless relief before turning back towards Castiel--and, hello, he hadn't noticed he was still clutching the angel's shoulder. He coughed, let his hand drop awkwardly and wavered on his feet for a dizzy few seconds. "We, uh, should probably get the hell out of dodge, because that diner is... is chock full of bodies and... Ow..." He trailed off, reached down and curled a hand around his midsection.

The movement made a flare of agony bloom in his gut, and when he raised his hand it came up bloody. "Ah, shit."

"Dean...?" Sammy's voice, rising in concern, but it sounded far away and fuzzy around the edges.

"Fucking windows, man. Why'd we always got to jump through windows?" he muttered blearily, shuffling back against the now reassuring solidity of the truck at his back as he fought not to drop unconscious at Castiel's feet.

Castiel frowned and gripped Dean’s elbow; with a thought, he’d healed the worst of Dean’s wounds and gotten the glass out of the rest of them. “Crowley sent him?” he asked, frowning. That had been no demon…

“I would advise you both find a hotel and rest for a while. “ The angel vanished for a moment into the diner and picked up the colt before returning to Dean’s side in the same time as it took to blink. “I’ve cleared any signs of you two out of the area.”

He looked between the brothers and reached out to heal Sam as well. They both would still have bruising and minor cuts but nothing serious. He silently told the host he’d be keeping an eye on the Winchesters for at least a few more hours before returning, adding that Crowley had either sided with the fallen or had lured a few over to his side. 

“Why did he attack you two anyway?” he finally asked, reaching out to grip Dean’s elbow again, more for his own comfort than anything else. He’d been unaware Sam and Dean had been in trouble until he’d heard Dean’s frantic prayers. That alone had been enough to cause him to drop everything and fling himself towards where Dean had been. 

Dean had been near to crumbling in an undignified heap when Castiel's hand wrapped around his arm. There was a brief, dizzying flash of something, like a surge of electricity only softer, lighter, and he'd experienced it often enough to recognize it as angelic mojo healing. Between one breath and the next he wasn't swaying on his feet anymore, and he pushed away from the truck with a small grin of thanks.

"Yeah. So he said anywa--Oh, that never gets old," Dean muttered as the angel blinked out of existence before he'd had a chance to finish his sentence. Sam snorted beside him.

"Think he does it on purpose to spite you?"

"I think it's a definite possibi--Jesus, Cas." Dean jumped this time when Castiel reappeared in front of him, then held out his hand to take the colt and shoved it back under the waist of his jeans, where it damn well belonged.

He was pleased to hear Sam draw in a surprised breath through his teeth when the angel's outstretched fingers connected with his forehead. The bump that had been threatening to turn blue near Sammy's eye was suddenly gone, and Dean turned a slight smile at his brother.

"Tingles, don't it?"

Sam shot him a look between wondrous and horrified. "Seriously, Dean, I didn't need to know that."

Dean frowned. "Wha--Oh, fuck you." He stubbornly ignored his brother's smug-ass face and addressed Cas instead. "I don't know why he went after us, I mean, we'd just gotten started on this sixth stone and--"

"And Dean thought it'd be a good idea to go racing the Impala against a demon's fancy european car," Sam interrupted.

"Wasn't that fancy. And, hey, he started it," Dean shot back petulantly. "The guy had been throwing cars left and right, we couldn't just let him run. I didn't know he'd turn out to be such a massively difficult dick to gank." Somehow Castiel's hand was still loosely wrapped around his arm, and though he could stand just fine on his own, thank you very much, Dean didn't move away.

“He was probably here looking for you and knew that endangering people would catch your attention.” Castiel said frowning and looking around. “But that was not a demon, it was a fallen angel. His name is Bernael.” 

He looked around again before squeezing Dean’s arm lightly and letting it go. “I would suggest leaving now however. You both need rest.” He wanted to make sure Bernael had not done anything else to the Winchesters and have a moment or ten alone with Dean to impression on him that calling for him sooner rather than later was good idea.

He really just wanted to wrap his wings protectively around Dean and press close for several hours and make sure Dean was alright. He had no plans of doing this but he certainly wanted too. He made a mental note to hide the impala from angelic sight. It was how he’d been finding Sam and Dean so it made sense that the fallen were finding them that way as well.

"Well, okay. Guess that explains why the salt and water didn't work," Sam mulled, running a hand through his hair and nodding at Castiel's suggestion to leave. 

"Yeah, that's just peachy. Now we got to watch our asses from demons and from the Fallen Angel fan club. His eyes turned black, though. I saw it," Dean insisted, barely managing to keep the dissatisfaction from his face when Castiel let go of him. "Guess we're gonna have to start carrying those blades around now."

Because there was no way in hell he'd let those flightless dicks spring a surprise on him twice. And telling the difference between angels and demons was starting to become a ridiculously difficult chore; creatures from upstairs and downstairs had no right to go mixing it up like that. It was supremely unfair, in Dean's book. At least with demons you knew where you stood. But this? This had just been a massive kick in the teeth; he'd never even seen it coming.

"We're going. I don't want to stick around until the cops get here," he added as he walked on surprisingly steady legs to the Impala. She hadn't been damaged in their little impromptu fight, thank fuck, and Dean opened the driver's side door before glancing back at Castiel. "You riding the angel express or taking the long way back? We were going to stop in a few miles, sleep a couple hours then head on for the next stone."

He didn't mention how the last time Cas had accompanied them on a search for the damn things had ended with them both fucking like bunnies until Dean was about ready to collapse. There really wasn't much need to do so, because it was still burned clear as day into his memory.

Castiel snorted out a bit of laughter. “It’s nothing to trick human minds into seeing things angels want them to see, Dean. He probably did that throw you off his track.” he said with a shrug. He stayed close to Dean as he spoke simply because he enjoyed the closeness.

Looking between the brothers Castiel shrugged. “I’ll ride along with you just in case he comes back.” He said and with a thought and a bit of grace he vanished to the back seat of the impala. It would be safer for the time being if he was along for the ride.

“Dean, how opposed to me burning enochian sigils into the frame of your car would you be? I believe that’s how he found you, looking for it rather than you.” Castiel wondered if the question would cause Dean to fly into an incoherent rage or not. He was very protective of the car.

"Of course. Us poor humans are so easily tricked," Dean muttered under his breath as Castiel disappeared silently. He saw the angel's silhouette land on the back seat of the impala and sighed. "You think we're ever going to not feel like we're sitting at the kiddies' table, Sammy?"

A snort at his left told him that was unlikely. "Dunno. And stop bitching; far as I know, you like the kiddies' table," Sam answered as he walked around the car, shrugged and ducked into the passenger seat.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Hey, I've seen the dicks that sit at the grown-up table--present company excluded, Cas--so yeah, I guess it ain't that bad down here," he shot back as he got behind the wheel. He was just reaching to slide the key in the car's ignition when Castiel piped up with a question and his hand froze for one mad second.

He blinked, hand still outstretched. "Huh. So they're following my baby around, then? Well, that sucks," he exclaimed, finally getting the motor started and driving away. Not a second too soon, too, because as soon as they were back on the road Dean saw three local PD cars speed in the other direction, their lights flashing briefly in harsh contrast inside the dark interior of the impala.

He waited until they were more or less out of sight and gunned it, unwilling to risk getting caught by the cops again because he wasn't sure how tight their fake IDs were. "I, um... We talking sigils like the ones you artsied up on our ribs here, Cas? The invisible-to-the-naked-eye kind, right? 'Cause I gotta say, if you think I'm gonna let you loose on my car with a can of spray paint, you got another thing coming."

Sam twisted in his seat and shot Castiel a mock-incredulous look, complete with raised eyebrows. "How on earth are you still alive?" He turned back towards Dean, grinning like the little bastard he was. "I swear, next you'll be letting him pick the music. Should I stock up on gospel tapes, Dean?"

"Oh, shut the hell up. Angels are tracking us with the car, man."

Sam just kept grinning. It figured his brother would only smile when he was firmly standing on Dean's nuts, metaphorically speaking. Dean wondered briefly how he could ever expect to top 'bonking an angel' as far as blackmail and teasing material was concerned. It was probably physically impossible. It also occurred to him that Sammy teasing was miles better than Sammy freaking out, which made it so damned hard to fight back, because--damn his stupid brother--he couldn't fight that grin.

“Gospel?” Castiel asked with a slight frown. “I would rather not listen to any sort of religious music, Sam.” The angel shook his head. Human got so much about everything involving God and the heavenly host wrong.

“And yes I mean invisible to the naked eye sort of sigils.” He added after a moment. Tilting his head to the side. To be honest he would have done it anyway and damn Dean’s freak out about the car. He knew Dean would eventually get over it but it would be easier to have Dean’s blessing.

Deciding he would get the craving under way after they’d found the hotel. Then he’d probably spend the night hovering over Dean and pretending he wasn’t upset he’d left them unguarded. He wouldn’t let it happen again. If he had to be gone there were several other angels he could have tail the Winchesters without them being noticed. It was more for his piece of mind than for their safety.

"Oh, thank fuck for that," Dean muttered under his breath, reaching for the radio as Sammy scowled beside him. Two against one, he thought, no chance, Sammy boy. He briefly wondered, as the sweet, sweet sounds of Led Zeppelin's Highway to Hell filled the car, if he could actually get Castiel to team up against Sam in an all-out prank war.

It seemed unlikely, but Dean could play optimist when he chose to.

He glanced up at the rearview mirror, caught Castiel's eye and grinned. "Guess you're in the clear, then. Just as long as it doesn't show, I'm game. I mean, Bob Ross here already went full on chalk-painting on her before, didn't you, Sammy?"

"You washed them off, Dean," Sam answered.

If Dean didn't know better he could have sworn his brother was sulking. Score. "You need to work on your line work, man. Them's were half-assed sigils."

His brother only rolled his eyes, and Dean drove on. It took them three hours to reach the motel; they'd gotten quite horrendously sidetracked with the fallen angel deal, and Dean had worried that the place wouldn't have any rooms left. He got a mixed blessing when he got there; there was one room still available, and the clerk at the counter let him know, in no uncertain terms, that they were lucky to have gotten even that.

Apparently the place was all the rage this time of year--Dean caught the tail end of a ridiculously kitsch marketing rant about glorious landscapes and autumn colours worthy of a Martha Stewart article--and this crappy motel was just the bee's knees in terms of northern quaint. 

He could've puked. Instead he just thanked the woman and went back outside, brandishing a single, lonely key. "Buck up, boys, we're bunking."

"Oh, joy," Sam muttered as he got out of the car and headed for the trunk and their two bags.

Dean shuffled past his brother and wriggled the key in the lock. "Dibs on the shower. Because I'm the eldest. Also, I think I stepped on somebody's tooth back there."

"You got shoes, don't you?" The Impala's trunk slammed shut and Sam joined him at the door.

"Whatever. Dibs. Called it first." 

The room was, as expected, quaint. Picturesque might even apply. Country-chic. Mostly, it was brown. But the beds seemed plush enough, and the bathroom, when Dean investigated, sported a rather large and--surprise, he hadn't been expecting that--strangely opulent bathtub. 

Castiel followed after the Winchesters taking in the sights with a vaguely bemused look. He was a bit disappointed that Dean and Sam where sharing a room rather than separate. He really wanted to pin Dean against a wall and growl into his ear that next time, next time he should call for help sooner rather than later. 

The angel carefully hung back while Sam and Dean were getting their room and carved the sigils into the Impala’s frame while they did with a bit of grace. It would keep them safer and would mean he’d have to start making phone calls when he didn’t know where they were. 

Granted after that, he wanted to trail his mouth all over every inch of Dean’s body he could before the man was breathless and begging. Not that any of this showed on his face, instead Castiel stilled his head and watched Dean with interest. If Dean wanted to drag him off elsewhere for some sort of amorous activities he would not complain about it.

Having a chance to have his still ‘discussion’ with Dean when they did so would be a plus. It occurred to the angel that he was getting too close to his charges again. But he didn’t really care, because he was happy when he was traveling with Sam and Dean, pretending he was one of them. Hunting was interesting and not really that difficult most of the time.

Of course he was an angel and what was dangerous for humans was simply entertaining for him. Again the inkling urge to rip out his grace and become human at the end of this all crept into his mind and he pushed it away. To even think like that was dangerous. He would have to wait until things truly were over before even contemplating that. No to mention Dean might not want him if he was human. That scared Castiel no small amount.

Cas was standing in the middle of the motel room when Dean finished his impromptu tour of the bathroom, Sam dumping laptop and books onto the absurdly small and ridiculously tacky bedside table. It was carved from natural wood, and it looked as if some crazy woodcutter had gone at it with a bandsaw and not a whole lot of finesse. 

He went to the motel room's door, locked it firmly and finally turned towards Castiel, who seemed to be in full-on angelic mofo mode, standing stiffly with his arms at his sides and his face carefully schooled into his usual mask of indecipherable coldness. Dean had learned to interpreted those expressions though, and he classified this one as subtly pissed off.

He had no idea why. "Cas, buddy, loosen up. You rocked that asshole, and we may not have magic fingers up in here, but the bathroom is heavenly and--" He caught himself too late, backtracked hurriedly and coughed. "I mean, it's badass, really nice. No point in sulking right now."

Sam, of course, chose that moment to speak. "People died tonight, Dean. Innocent people. We have to figure out what's going on with these fallen angels. They haven't so much as threatened us before. Something's changed."

Dean frowned, sitting himself down heavily on the edge of the nearest bed. "Yeah? And what d'you propose we do? We've got jack squat on this shit, Sam. We don't know what's going on. We're chasing some freakin' stones, like collecting tumbled gems is gonna help us. None of this is making any sense," he mused angrily. "At least with Lucifer and Michael we knew where we stood, man."

There was a few seconds' cold silence, before Sam spoke again. "Yeah?" Sam parroted, "Would that be standing at the edge of saying 'yes' to Michael out of cowardice because you couldn't man up and admit you felt out of your depth?"

Dean hissed a breath in through his teeth, but Sam interrupted whatever he was going to say.

"I'm... sorry, Dean. I didn't mean that."

"It's okay. Guess I deserved that one," Dean answered. He got up, somewhat surprised because he'd expected a twinge of pain from his side and didn't get one, and shuffled back into the bathroom. "Think I'm gonna wash these guts off of me, guys," he mumbled, and it felt more like fleeing than he was comfortable admitting.

Castiel found himself frowning at Sam for a long moment before vanishing. Dean had never said yes to Michael. Sam had said yes to Lucifer but surprisingly had overcome him and jumped into the pit. So Castiel wouldn’t blame Sam for his behavior but he could disapprove of his lack of tact. 

The angel reappeared in the bathroom with Dean. “Dean,” he said softly once he was sure Dean had shut the door behind him. Instead of going for comfort because he sensed comfort wouldn’t go over well with Dean at the moment, Castiel pushed Dean up against the wall and invaded his personal space. "Why do you insist on calling for me only when you and your brother are about to be ripped to bits?” He let his voice drop into a low growl as he pressed closer.

He didn’t want to admit worrying about Dean’s safety while he was away but he let his expression shift a bit to concern. “What would you do without me to come rescue you?” He couldn’t help it, he smirked slightly pressing closer to Dean and fixing him with an expectant look.

Dean had expected the tirade and the estrogen-filled apology to continue on even through the door, or even for Sam to try and follow him. It had happened before, but as he closed the door and leaned against the sink he realized, thank God, that Sam had dropped it. It wasn't that much of a sore point, really; he'd been aware, even at the time, that he was acting like a fool. He'd known he'd hurt Sammy, because he'd admitted he didn't trust his own brother not to crack.

And, obviously, Cas had also made it pretty damned clear at the time that he'd been less than pleased about Dean's little plan with Michael. They'd gotten over that, but it had driven the point quite firmly home that, as he'd told Sammy, one shouldn't fuck with the nerd angels.

Dean realized--a bit nervously--that he'd been doing just that when he looked up into the bathroom vanity's mirror and met Castiel's eyes. He jumped, startled, and was about to ask what the hell this was about when a hand wrapped around his forearm and he was spun around and none-too-gently shoved backwards until his back and shoulders hit the bathroom wall.

Castiel leaned in, eyes serious and distant, mouth set in a hard line, and Dean's brain did everything in its power to turn his knees to jelly despite the fact that he should've been furious with the manhandling. "How the hell was I supposed to know we'd need your heavenly ass to deal with a single demon, huh?" he gritted, breath hitching as Cas disregarded all of Dean's carefully-constructed rules about personal space--yes, fuck, finally--and pressed closer, a firm, completely immovable bar of heat against his chest.

"You ain't our babysitter, Cas. I'm not about to clear every single decision we make out there with you simply because the shit might hit the fan." He squirmed a bit when the angel's body against his became a bit more restricting, became more like a steel girder forcing him against the door, but the slight smirk on Castiel's lips made something jump in his chest and drop like a lead weight into his gut. It twisted and flared, like heat, when he realized that the other side of the coin to having an angel in his bed, willing and pliant and letting it happen, was this.

His breathing was already too quick, too strained, and Dean shot a worried glance towards the bathroom door--no way Sammy hadn't heard the thump of his back hitting the wall--before fixing Castiel with what turned out to be a really half-assed glare. "What the hell, Cas? Just... what are you doing?"

Castiel dragged his hands down Dean’s chest with an irritated sound. “Sometimes I feel as if I am your babysitter, Dean,” he growled, fixing him with another of those ‘angel of the lord’ looks. “You insist on making things more complicated than necessary. When you saw that that ‘demon’ was flinging automobiles around you should have called me.”

“I don’t want you to clear every decision with me, Dean. I want you to think before you chase after something that might try to turn you inside out. Or drag you back into hell.” He pushed Dean a little bit more against the wall. “You are possibly the most infuriating human I have ever met," the angel huffed, finally noticing Dean’s worried look.

For a moment he was confused then he caught on and he glanced at the door as well. The angel looked back at Dean and leaned closer to catch Dean’s lips in a slightly demanding kiss. He could, if he wanted to, cloak whatever sounds he and Dean made with his grace like he had in the parking lot. But for some reason the idea of Dean struggling to keep quiet was quite alluring to him.

“I am, as always, endeavoring to make you see reason, though I would have a better chance of convincing water to flow backwards or the earth to reverse its rotation,” he muttered, pushing Dean’s shirt up with one hand and undoing his pants with the other. It was probably a bad idea to positively reinforce Dean’s stubbornness but the way Dean’s breath had hitched and his reactions to being pressed against a wall were very distracting.

The idea occurred to Castiel that this might be a sign that Dean thought he wanted to take him. Which, if the angel was being honest, was an intriguing thought, but it was something he wanted to be sure Dean was ready and willing to do before even attempting it. Instead, he shamelessly rummaged into Dean’s mind for information about oral sex and found a gold mine of what Dean wanted and liked out of a good blow job.

There were probably far more appropriate times than this. But that did nothing to stop Castiel from working a hand into Dean’s pants and wrapping his fingers around his half hard erection with a pleased hum. He worked his fingers over the heated flesh in a few teasing strokes before pushing Dean’s pants all the way open and sliding them down. 

He had a brief moment where he was unsure of himself before he licked his lips and sank to his knees in front of Dean. Castiel was nothing if not a force of intent, be it heaven’s intent or his own, so he didn’t hesitate to lean in and lick a careful strip along the underside of Dean’s member before glancing up at him in a manner not intended to be coy--but which probably came off that way all the same--and wrapping his lips around the head.

It was strange to have the weight of Dean’s member against his tongue, but after a moment to wrap his mind around it Castiel leaned steadily forward, taking entire length of it in without pause or any real trouble. His vessel didn’t gag because it was a reflex that he didn’t have; he simply stayed still for a moment before glancing up at Dean again and very deliberately swallowing around the thick member in his mouth, working his tongue experimentally as he did. 

"Yeah, well, I'm not exactly used to to calling for help, Cas. We've been managing fine since a hell of a long--" Dean's words died in his throat when one of Castiel's hands snuck under his shirt. He felt more than saw--because all he could freaking see right now was blue, blurry and unfocused, Castiel's face close enough to tickle with the angel's every breath--another hand deftly undoing the button on his jeans.

"Jesus fuck, are you serious?" he managed to grit out. Any further protests were completely obliterated because three seconds later there was a hand, warm and firm and ever so delicious, wrapping around his swiftly-swelling cock. He wasn't being held back against the wall anymore; one hand was currently still snaking upwards under his shirt and the other was pulling at his dick in a way that he would never in a hundred years have associated with the blushing virgin that had been Cas a few months ago. 

Still, Dean couldn't have moved from his spot to save his life. And when Castiel unceremoniously dropped to his knees, he could've cheered and hollered and whooped. As it was, his knees almost buckled and he hissed, voice trembling. "This your way of teaching me a lesson here, Cas? Just, I gotta say, I ain't complain--Oh, fuck."

Dean flailed one hand wildly and slapped it on the edge of the sink; Castiel--an angel, sweet hell, if he'd thought Cas had looked and felt debauched before this was probably a sin and a crime and everything else bad, wrapped up in bacon and pie all at once--had just run a blazingly hot tongue up the underside of his dick. 

He couldn't stop the groan from worming its way up his throat. And he regretted it instantly, because that one hot swipe of tongue turned into a hot, tight glide of lips and mouth, and he glanced down just in time to see Cas, staring up unflinching at him, before the angel moved his mouth down and freaking swallowed him whole like a seasoned veteran.

Dean had about half a second's worth of conscious thought left to bemusedly ponder the fact that he'd have to teach Castiel about appropriate times to turn a serious and soul-searching look on a guy before the raw reality of what was happening to his cock hit him. And it hit hard, in the form of Cas' lips meeting the skin of his stomach, and of a throat convulsing rhythmically around him, tight and warm and slick and completely illegal in all fifty states.

He wrestled one hand down--the one currently not occupied with trying to claw the sink to bits--to bury his fingers into Castiel's hair and moaned, a broken, reverberating sound that Dean just knew Sam had to have heard. Happily, he couldn't care about that just then, not with Cas' mouth and throat so perfect and tight around him. 

His head met the wall behind him again, a resounding thud that did nothing to settle his wildly thrumming senses. Dean hesitated only a second and then his hand was fisting itself into Castiel's hair, hard, and he bucked, whining out a desperate, strangled sound as the angel's throat closed and thrummed and pulsed around his dick.

The sound of the water running nearby almost shocked him--apparently he'd trashed so hard that he'd turned on the tap--and he almost bit through his lower lip before he relented and stared down at Castiel; at Castiel just kneeling there, with Dean's cock shoved so far down his throat he should've been gagging with it.

Dean moaned, pressed his hand harder against the angel's head. "Cas... Please," he grunted, and God he hoped Castiel would get it, would grant him permission, because right now all he wanted to do was fuck himself into that mouth until he saw stars.

If he’d known that this would cause Dean to flail and struggle like he was Castiel probably would have tried this sooner. It was very invigorating to have Dean nearly incoherent so fast from such simple action. He would have to keep that in mind for future difficulties.

He had to look into Dean’s mind again to find out what he wanted permission for. What he found there made him groan around Dean’s dick and very carefully nod his head slightly without pulling away. If Dean wanted to fuck his mouth Castiel was game. 

The heavy weight of Dean against his tongue was far more arousing than the angel had any intentions of sharing. That Dean would trust him enough allow this was quite the turn on. Dean’s hand fisted in his hair was equally thrilling. He liked it when Dean touched his hair it had the same intimate ties as letting Dean run his fingers through his wings. 

All the physical touch that Dean indulged in with him was thrilling for Castiel. Not just the sex –which was always good in Castiel’s book- the other touches they were new and unique for him. Angels didn’t casually touch like humans did so it was something to get used to. Personally Castiel liked the casual contact; it was soothing somehow.

None of this would ever be voiced, Castiel was sure of that; neither he nor Dean really talked about things like that. Instead of dwelling on things, Castiel maintained eye contacted, gave Dean’s member a suggestive suck and flirted his tongue along the vein on the underside of the rigid member.

Dean had to endure another weird look--how long it went on he had no idea; it could've been a second or an hour, but the heat and slick, moist tightness of Castiel's throat made it nearly impossible to concentrate--before he saw the angel nod. And he wasn't even sure if Cas knew what he was agreeing to, but apparently this wasn't a problem because he was already buried as far as he could go and Castiel wasn't choking. Wasn't even breathing hard, and God, that wasn't fair.

He couldn't even spare a thought for the fact that, while most angels were dicks, this one was freaking awesome, this one was kneeling in some dingy motel bathroom and he looked positively gorgeous while doing so. Dean couldn't think to do much expect groan as his other hand dropped from the sink and settled against Castiel's head.

He curled the fingers of both hands into dark hair and pulled, sliding out of that too-tight heat with a hiss before rocking himself back in, and that was it. That was all the self-control he could muster, despite nearly two decades spent being the consummate lover, the one who prided himself on making everyone feel like a million bucks, on making each encounter notable in somebody else's book.

Something like a mangled curse left his lips--he couldn't muster the energy to notice what he was saying--and he bucked forwards back into Castiel's mouth with a strangled cry, too loud and too raw, fingers clutching steadfast into dark hair. After the first thrust met only willing resistance and a strange, pulsing warmth--Jesus Christ, he was fucking into Castiel's throat, and that had to be wrong--he couldn't stop.

He found a harsh, unforgiving rhythm there, something desperate and wild and raw that he would never have attempted with anyone else. And God, it was so good, every slide perfect and almost too much, until he was sweating with it, until he was shaking and bucking, until his rhythm faltered. He was only vaguely aware of the near-constant stream of filth he was saying, a litany of "Oh, fuck yes, Cas," and "God, so good like this, Castiel, so good, I could fuck your mouth for hours," which was, admittedly, at least a partial lie.

Dean hadn't even been aware he'd been so damned close, but the next few thrusts bloomed a tight burst of pleasure at the base of his spine and he couldn't even muster the energy to shout out a warning. His hands tightened in Castiel's hair, twitching, and he shoved himself as deep as he could go and came with a loud, strangled cry, pulsing deep within the angel's throat. The aftershocks of it had him reeling and he slumped back against the wall for support because his knees had apparently gone boneless without his permission and it was all he could do to stand upright.

He disentangled his fingers from Castiel's hair the second he could breathe again and dropped numb hands down onto the angel's shoulders, his chest heaving for air. "Okay... Okay, fuck, that was amazing. I'm sorry," he blurted, before continuing with a brainless and incoherent, "But thank you, Cas."

All Castiel could do was go along for the ride when Dean started moving. He lost all trace of coherent rhythm and thought after first few thrusts, but the brutal pace was just fine for the angel. He pressed his head forward into each thrust readily taking the abuse on the throat. It didn't hurt though he could tell if he wasn't what he was it would be profoundly uncomfortable if not painful.

Letting his hands wander up over Dean’s thighs and ass, marvelling at the feeling of muscles working under his palms. After awhile he let his eyes fall shut and listened to the litany of filth streaming out of Dean’s mouth. Each time he heard his true name spoken the angel shuddered and groaned around Dean’s cock. 

When Dean lost himself Castiel swallowed down the evidence of it readily and when Dean let go of his head he leaned back with a pleased sigh. He took a moment to process what Dean had said and licked his lips. He ran his hands up Dean’s flanks and looked up at him with a small smile.

“You’re welcome, Dean,” he murmured, shifting on his knees, unsure if standing was a good idea just yet. He was surprised to find the he was almost painfully aroused and hoping that Dean would decide to reciprocate something of what Castiel had just done.


	16. Time Off For Everyone

Dean nodded through the drowsy, pink fuzz of post-orgasm bliss, barely registering Castiel's words while he fought for breath. There was absolutely no doubt in his mind that Sammy had heard every single thing, but he was way too happy and lethargic to care right now. Either his brother had fled or he'd stuck his damned iPod headphones so deep into his ears they might as well have been plugged straight into his brain. Either way, it wasn't his problem just yet.

The more immediate and much more important thing was Cas, who was still kneeling there at his feet, sporting a rather sizeable erection himself under those dark slacks. Dean managed a faint grin and tugged at the material of the angel's trench coat. 

"Get up here," he drawled lazily, hands going immediately for the tie. He loosened it slowly, let it fall aside then pushed the coats off Castiel's back before working the first few buttons of his shirt open. Dean had absolutely no illusions about what Castiel would taste like at this point, but what he'd just gotten most definitely deserved at least a kiss and so he obliged.

It was slow and drowsy, interrupted often because Dean was still out of breath, but he managed to wriggle out of his jeans and boxers and kick off his shoes without stepping out of reach of Castiel's lips. He'd never been a particularly big fan of kissing the mouth that had just sucked him off, but this time he barely even noticed the sharp tang of himself on the angel's tongue. 

After a few minutes though he had to step back to pull off his shirt and leaned against the side of the bathtub to get the water going. He cranked it up as hot as he could tolerate it and turned back towards Castiel, running his hand briefly down the angel's stomach to knead at the bulge tenting his pants. "I think you should lose all of these clothes, Cas. 'Cause remember when I said that iniquity was a perk?" Dean jerked his head sideways at the filling tub, where vapor was already starting to rise.

"This is another. Steaming hot bath. This thing's more than big enough for the both of us, and, fuck it, we're going to take our damn sweet time with this," he said, stilling his hand so he could start working on the angel's belt. He tugged at it until he could pull Castiel closer, leaning back to sit on the edge of the bathtub and distracting himself by exploring, with his lips and tongue, the strip of pale flesh between the hem of the angel's pants and the edge of his untucked shirt while he waited for the water in the tub to rise.

Castiel licked his lips and followed the tugs on his trench coat –as well as the order to stand- and found himself being undressed by a bemused Dean. Not that the angel was about to complain about it or the leisurely kisses that followed. The lingering taste of Dean on his tongue was certainly new, not entirely pleasant but new.

The slow kisses were definitely something Castiel could find himself getting used to, especially if they were always accompanied by equally pleasant wandering hands. Like always he attempted simply toeing off his shoes as Dean did and failed miserably. An ageless being again defeated by footwear - not that the welcome hand that had kneaded his erection had helped-, but a judicious use of grace got rid of them.

Wisely, he left the rest of his clothing on. “Wouldn’t doing whatever iniquitous deeds you have planed while bathing sort of be counterproductive to bathing?” he asked with a small smile even as he raised his hands to start undoing the buttons on his shirt. 

Leaving his shirt on but unbuttoned Castiel bit back a low groan as Dean - with the help of his wicked tongue- started to mouth his way across his torso. The angel let out a low appreciative sound at the attention. The sensation of Dean’s lips against his skin was always nice.

Dean couldn't help it; he chuckled against Castiel's hip, fingers finally wrenching the tongue of the angel's belt free. "Yeah? That's sort of the point, Cas. Easy cleanup. We don't all have magical finger-mojo, you know," he muttered back, glancing up to find Castiel staring down at him. And there was a minuscule smirk curling, almost unseen, at the corners of the angel's lips.

Dammit, he really ought to start paying attention to what Cas was saying these days; apparently the guy was starting to get the hang of messing with him. "Oh, you're an ass, you know that? Stop taking pointers from Sammy's book of sarcasm," Dean grumbled, though he was grinning back. "Besides," he continued, deftly undoing the button on Castiel's slacks and dragging the zipper down painfully slowly, "You gotta give a guy a couple minutes to find his brains after you pull what you just pulled, man. You're lucky I'm not already snoring."

Then, because he could and because it was entirely unfair that Cas was still mostly clothed while Dean was freezing his naked ass off on the edge of the tub, he snaked both hands down Castiel's sides and pushed down the angel's pants, hooking his thumbs in the sensible underwear and splaying his palms down against every inch of flesh he slowly revealed. Castiel's pants fell at his feet with a soft hiss of noise, and Dean was leaning in, running his hands back up just shy of Cas' erection, pressing fingers in the crease where hip met thigh.

He let one hand trail away to blindly grope for the bathtub's faucet and turn it off, mouthing against the skin he'd just released in a long, slow drag upwards. He purposefully avoided the warm weight of Castiel's dick, laving his way up and around it and using his hand at the angel's hip as leverage to slowly get to his feet. His own cock gave a valiant twitch at the sudden heat of being pressed firmly against Castiel and he smirked, closing the few inches between them to steal another lazy kiss before turning away.

There was absolutely no sexy way to get into the bathtub without looking like a complete fool, so Dean just stepped in and lowered himself into the nearly scalding water with a loud, pleased groan, lounging back against the side of the tub. "C'mon, Cas. There's," Dean reached for a bottle of body soap, opened it and huffed, "Aw, damn. Friggin' lavender again." He looked back up at Cas and hissed a breath in through his teeth.

The angel was still standing there, cock hard and purpling against his fair skin, his lips still swollen and spit-slick from when Dean had been fucking his mouth, and this time the twinge of want in his lower belly elicited definitely more than a valiant twitch from his own flesh. "Just get in here. Please," he nearly growled, reaching up with a thoroughly soaked hand to run his fingers up the back of Castiel's thigh.

Castiel groaned lowly as Dean pushed his pants down and ran his hands over seemingly every inch of skin except his erection. The obvious teasing elicited a low sound that could have been a whine from him. Though he would deny it if asked.

Watching as Dean slid into the water Castiel took a moment to admire the way Dean’s skin looked when slick with water. He caught hold of Dean’s water-slick hand and brushed his fingers along the inside of Dean’s wrist. “Patience is a virtue, Dean,” he said while trying to figure out the logistics of getting into a tub with someone else.

After a moment of thought he stepped into the tub and settled himself between Dean’s thighs, his back to Dean’s chest. Turning his back to Dean brought strange thrills to the pit of Castiel’s gut; Angels rarely turned their backs to each other, because of the amount of vulnerability their wings posed for them. 

So it was a sign of trust to allow such close contact, but Dean would know none of this. The water was warm and comfortable in a unique sort of way. He could remember watching mothers bathing their children in rivers in the early years of man.

"It might be a virtue, Cas, but it sure as hell isn't one of mine," Dean shot back, relaxing against the cool porcelain at his back when Castiel finally seemed to make up his mind and stepped over the edge of the tub. The water sloshed alarmingly around them as Cas settled--sweet God, this had to have been one of his best ideas yet--slowly down between his splayed thighs and leaned back.

Dean had about half a second to brace himself and then there was warm, water-slicked skin pressed against every inch of him, and Castiel's neck was almost within touching distance. He chuckled--Cas had gone for the idea, but he was about as rigid as a bar of steel against him--and reached a hand up to gently pull the angel back the rest of the way, bracing his feet against the opposite edge of the tub and leaning in a lazy, boneless sprawl with Cas mostly draped on top of him.

His cock was trapped in between them, pressed half-hard already against the naked, wet skin of Castiel's lower back and hell if it wasn't complaining at the treatment at all. Dean wondered, briefly, if Cas even had been in a damned bathtub before; it was ridiculously unlikely, and Dean decided then and there that at some point in the near future, there'd have to be a list.

He'd have to write it himself of course, but there'd have to be a list, and it would be titled 'Shit That Cas Needs To Try Before We All Croak'. He chuckled to himself and reached both hands around the furiously warm body pressed against him to knead the flesh of Castiel's thighs, moving upwards lazily.

"Hey," Dean breathed, and he only had to turn his head a few degrees to find his mouth inches from Cas' ear and jaw. "You were right. Patience is nice. Can't even remember the last time I took time off like this." Those were the only words he could manage though, because mouthing at Castiel's ear seemed infinitely preferable and one of his hands had sneaked upwards and was stroking up the length of the angel's cock.

Sammy was probably still right behind the thin door, but if he didn't care before, right now he could almost forget about it entirely. And, for once, there was none of the hurried chaos between him and Cas, no spells, no weird magical stone mojo, no impending death knoll or sense of urgency. Just skin under his hands and lips and Dean could thrive on this, he knew. He had one hand pulling at Castiel's cock and the other cupping at his balls and teasing behind them and, hell, he could've done this for hours.

Castiel forced himself to relax against Dean; he was still a bit mystified by the whole idea of sharing a bath. But the comfortable sensation of skin on skin was certainly alluring enough for him to simply wait for the next move from Dean.

Gentle hands kneading the muscles of his thighs caused the angel to shiver and moan lowly. “This is hardly taking time off, Dean,” he murmured, letting his own hands dip into the water and run over the outside of Dean’s thighs. “But it is very nice.” He was tempted to offer to take Dean anywhere he wanted for a day or a week or however long Dean wanted. He could ensure he wouldn’t be missed or miss anything. After all time travel was not quite as straining as it had been when he’d disobeyed.

The idea got pushed aside when Dean’s hand closed around his erection and stroked it. After that his mind was on other subjects. “Dean,” he encouraged, tilting his head back against Dean’s shoulder. “Are you trying to make me climax before you catch up?” He shuddered back against Dean as the man’s other hand found his balls and started teasing them.

"We aren't running for our lives or frantically trying to figure out our next move," Dean answered, breath puffing in a moist cloud against the side of Castiel's neck as the angel finally relaxed against him. "So it counts as time off. Besides..." A moan wrenched itself out from Cas' throat, like a rumbling purr, and Dean smiled, tightened his fist lightly around the flesh in his hand, giving it a good, long pull that ended with his thumb pressing against its head under the bath water. 

"Besides, we aren't in any hurry, are we?" he teased, throwing Castiel's words back at him. Oh, Dean could do patience just fine, especially when it came with the very positive reinforcement of the angel's ass pressed firmly into his lap so that each minute shudder--whether from him or from Castiel--had him sliding against wet skin. 

It was the sort of slow, enjoyable and infinitely debauched sex Dean never really got to have anymore. Technically he could've picked up dozens of girls here and there over the months and get just that; a whole night with a willing body underneath him, and, once, it would've been enough. He still wasn't sure just why it wasn't what he wanted anymore. But he hadn't gone that particular brand of hunting in what felt like months, and, with his cock nestled against the crease of Castiel's ass and both hands working the angel, he couldn't really find the energy to wonder why.

Because this was perfect; it felt like a normal continuation of whatever the hell he and Cas had been doing these past weeks. Besides, his own need had been given a short rest, courtesy of the most amazing blowjob Dean could ever remember getting, and he was in no hurry to finish this.

He even had the thought that perhaps hell had taught him at least one good thing he could apply to torture of an entirely different kind, and that, right there, was a testament to how good he was feeling, if his brain was making lurid cracks about the worst forty years of his life.

"Wasn't aware this was a competition, Cas," he grunted around Castiel's ear, lips closing briefly around his earlobe as he let his fingers play further down between the angel's spread thighs, pushing just light enough to be felt at Castiel's entrance. "And, hey, one of the best things about sex is that you get to take stuff for yourself, if you want it." As he spoke he released his tight grip on Castiel's cock and pulled at his hip, the angel slip-sliding closer and up a few inches nearly onto his lap.

The water sloshed alarmingly against the sides of the bath but didn't flood outwards and Dean groaned, rolling his hips once against Castiel's backside but otherwise unmoving. He was probably grinning like a shithead, and, yeah, this was evil, especially considering what Cas had just let him do, but he couldn't help himself. He wanted, needed Cas to reach out for him, probably needed to know for sure he wasn't the only one totally out of his depth with this thing they had now.

Castiel groaned and pressed back against Dean’s groin after he was adjusted. He’d caught on to Dean’s game nearly as soon as he heard his own words turned back on him. “Are you trying to tempt an angel, Dean?” he said in the best ‘angel of the lord’ voice that he could muster at the moment.

Loath to give up the comfortable position he was in, Castiel twisted around so he could catch Dean’s lips for another one of those slow kisses. “Because if you are, it's working.” He was still terribly beyond his depth when it came to things like this. “I am however so completely out of my depth about this, all of whatever this thing we have at the moment is. So you lead, I’ll follow.”

Whatever it was he was feeling for Dean was still some strange nameless emotion that kept sinking to the pit of his stomach and making him want to alternately give up everything he was for Dean, and wanting to give Dean everything he wanted. He knew enough about Dean not to try and figure out what it meant by asking Dean about it; that would only get him rebuffed and possibly cause awkwardness.

"Good," Dean muttered as soon as he could breathe again. If he'd thought that kissing Cas when the angel was writhing and panting and it was all tongue and teeth, hard and fast, was intense, he'd have to admit that this sort of close, slow contact was even more debilitating, Castiel near melted and fused against him as he was. There was heat, from both the water and the angel's hot-running body, and Dean had to breathe a few seconds before speaking again.

"I'd hate to think all this careful seduction was getting wasted, you know." He lowered his grip on Castiel's hips slightly, fingers going tight before he could force them to relax. Don't say tempt, don't say fall, Jesus, Cas. He couldn't--wouldn't--dwell on that though, not right now, and especially not when Castiel pulled the one card he couldn't fight, placing himself completely in Dean's hands. His words, nearly growled, Cas' voice turning ridiculously hot and gravely when he was like this, sending an urgent wave of heat directly where Dean wanted it most.

It was trust, and he apparently had it from Castiel in spades, the angel trusting him to lead him through this, again. For one brief second he wondered what it'd be like to give the same, to let someone else completely take the reins, to allow Cas something of what he was being allowed. Regardless of whichever way they ended up twisting themselves, regardless of whose body ended up on top, it wasn't something that Dean had let himself experience many times before. 

The desire to attempt it with Cas surprised him, because Castiel wasn't even human, could probably hurt him something fierce, even by accident, and so the twinge of curiosity wasn't expected. It came up out of him from some place he'd thought gone forever, after hell and everything he'd been through. But they were in a bathtub, which wasn't ideal for that sort of exploration, and it'd have to wait, especially since Dean wasn't quite sure of it yet and, besides, he had more pressing concerns at the moment.

Namely, Cas was almost sitting on him, and the slick glide of his backside against Dean's now fully-hard cock when he pulled at the angel's hips to draw him up and into his lap drew a deep groan from his throat. It was easy to pull at his hips and slide one hand under him, easy to guide his own cock to lightly rest against Castiel's entrance, entirely too easy to press open-mouth kisses against his shoulder. 

"Sweet fuck, Cas, you got no idea, do you?" he muttered, wondering if the angel really wasn't aware just how near-terminally hot it was to have him like this, loose and pliant and willing when the angel was anything but when he wasn't naked and pressed against him. 

Gravity did most of the work this time as Dean released his hold on Cas' hip, the angel sliding in a tight, slip-glide of heat around his dick. Dean's voice broke on a strangled cry of Castiel's name and for a few seconds he wasn't aware of much except the feeling of his cock being buried in warmth, Cas pressing in against him from all sides, his back and shoulders against Dean's chest, his thighs against Dean's and his body, exquisite and so damned warm, encircling Dean's length.

He shivered, let his head fall back against the edge of the tub and sighed, bucking up a few tiny, aborted inches to let Cas know he could move, take this for himself as Dean returned his hand to pull lightly at the angel's swollen flesh.

Castiel let out a breathless chuckle when Dean mentioned seduction. It was rather thrilling to think Dean had wanted him enough to attempt some sort of seduction, but the angel couldn’t name why it was exciting. He could feel the length of Dean’s erection pressing against his ass and contemplated rolling his hips against it.

However he didn’t get the chance to because Dean shifted him again then pressed up into him. There was a long slow burn as he was breeched. “No, I don’t have any idea, Dean,” he murmured, leaning back against Dean’s chest and tilting his head back against his shoulder. “Tell me.” It was hard to demand things with Dean’s hand on him and Dean inside him.

He waited a few tantalizing moments before bringing his hands up to grip the edge of the tub and raising up slowly before letting himself slide back down Dean’s length from gravity alone. It would have been difficult to maintain the loose limbed position he was in--still pressed back against Dean’s chest--and yet manage to raise his hips if it wasn’t for his angelic strength. 

Castiel set up a slow rhythm, raising himself up to the very crown of Dean’s prick and letting himself slide leisurely back down. If Dean wanted things to move fast he’d have to speed things along. As it was, his own pleasure was haltingly arching up towards release. It was a far more drawn out process than their previous couplings which had been rushed and full of burning need and ended in a flash of release. It was hard to decide which he liked more.

Once upon a time Dean might have managed a bitingly scathing retort, something witty and full of sarcasm and snark, something that would've made his for-the-night-date's eyes sparkle in mirth for a brief, totally meaningless moment. As it was, whatever he was about to say got lost somewhere between his brain and throat when Castiel's hands slipped like an afterthought to rest against the side of the bathtub and the angel raised himself up. It was a slow, gut-wrenching slide that Dean felt pulling at him all the way down to the root of his cock.

He tightened his free hand around the sharp bump of Castiel’s left hip and stretched back against the tub and the groan rising from his throat reverberated too loud in the enclosed space but that was totally unavoidable. It was the water, that much he dimly knew, easing the slide but nothing like spit or slick, making every movement drag perfect friction and pressure around him. He let the slow rhythm Cas was building push the angel’s length in and out of his loosely curled fist, its head appearing and disappearing between his fingers as Cas moved and Dean was suddenly very grateful that he’d gotten a round one in a few moments ago otherwise he would never have lasted through this.

Castiel’s back and shoulders were sliding wetly up and down his chest and Dean almost shook with the raw, base humanness of it, a thrumming, vibrating hum that sent a thrilling little spark twisting and coiling down to where they were joined. His thighs were locking up with the effort not to move, to let Cas set the pace, and he followed the rise and fall of Castiel’s neck close to his lips, mouthing at whatever skin became available. 

“Fuck, Cas. Fuck. You’re perfect like this,” he grunted, squeezing his eyes shut as he finally relented and moved his hand away from the angel’s hip, trailing it upward and slotting it against Castiel’s chest with a gentle pressure to ease his movements. He planted both feet against the opposite edge of the tub and rolled himself upwards, urging Cas into a slightly faster rhythm, meeting every downward slide with a slow, deep push into Castiel’s body. 

It was maddening, too slow, too warm—Dean’s forehead and hair were soaked, as though he’d dunked his head under the water—and certainly much too close, because with Cas pressed so tight against and around every inch of him he certainly couldn't deny what this was. Or at least, what this wasn’t.

Dean was dimly aware that there was water sloshing occasionally over the sides of the tub because he was really moving now, burying himself to the hilt again and again. “Cas, Cas, c’mon, lemme feel you,” he muttered, voice thick and drawling, rising into Castiel with one very final push. Heat and pleasure sparked, low and deep and flaring, and Dean latched his mouth onto the side of Castiel’s neck because he simply couldn’t stop the moans from tumbling out of him.

It was slow, and God, he crested high, spilling into Castiel’s body in a mad rush of heat that went on and on until he had to draw back and gasp air into his lungs or else suffocate. When he finally came down he was still rolling his hips lazily, as though he could’ve milked this anymore than he apparently had.

Castiel groaned at Dean’s words about him being ‘perfect’ as he was riding Dean’s prick. It was dirty and wrong to think of himself as perfect while he was doing the basest and most human thing he knew how to do. But that was all he could think about as Dean started to rise up to meet each of his slow slides down.

“I feel you, Dean,” he murmured, not entirely aware of what he was saying. Dean was all he could feel, pressing into him, pressed against his back, his hands all over his body. That final crest over the edge actually surprised the angel and he found himself trailing after Dean into bliss.

Surprise was still something new to him. Humans startled and surprised him often enough but experiencing the sort of rush of release without knowing he was so close just added an extra thrill to it all as he spilled himself over Dean’s hand. He was pleased that he’d kept his grace under control and hadn’t caused any awkward lights to flicker.

He rested back against Dean comfortably, his hips lazily twitching as Dean’s continued to move. Castiel chuckled lowly. “If you’re not careful we’ll be starting round three, Dean,” he murmured absently. Not that he’d mind another go, but he doubted Dean had the stamina to truly keep up with him for much longer.

Amazingly, the water was still very warm once they'd both more or less stopped moving, and Dean had to actually concentrate to stop himself from twitching underneath the angel. He smiled, sprawled back fully in the warm water, taking Cas down with him the barest few inches, until the water was very nearly straight up against the edges of the bath.

He was breathing like a racehorse and his heart was beating madly in his chest. It had been a damn long time since he'd last felt this spent, this completely lazy and sated, and the water wasn't helping him in the least. "Yeah, no can do, buddy. I'm not seventeen anymore, apparently," he shot back between breaths. 

After a couple of hazy minutes, Dean reached for the soap again, silently cursing himself when he realized he hadn't spared a single thought for washcloths. They'd made a damned mess of the bath anyway, but Dean wasn't ready to call this one a lost cause just yet. He soaped up both of his hands and dragged them down past Castiel's chest to carefully clean him, dipping his fingers past the water's edge and over soft skin, down below slowly softening flesh.

He was loathe to pull out and away, but they couldn't sleep in the damned bathtub, so Dean drifted down until his butt made contact with the relatively cool bottom of the tub and slid out of Castiel, fingers following in his wake for a brief, probably completely unneeded slide of still vaguely soapy fingers against soft, loose flesh. 

Getting up seemed a damned tiring chore, but they had to leave the bath at some point, and Dean managed a slight smirk and a light, slow, underwater slap at Castiel's ass. "Up you get, or I'll start to get pruny." It wasn't his most romantic moment, but, dammit, Dean's brains were scrambled eggs by now, and he was running on an empty stomach and two mind-blowing orgasms. He figured he was allowed a little flake, at this point.

Castiel chuckled lowly and after lingering a moment climbed out of the tub. He grabbed one of the towels off the rack and held it out for Dean. He tilted his head to the side curiously, watching Dean. He wanted to linger in the lazy warmth of the bath with Dean. But lingering was not in Dean’s plans clearly.

“You know if you truly wanted some time off, I am not hindered by being cut off from heaven anymore. So if you wanted to escape for a few days the lack of free time could be…avoided.” He offered and tilting his head a bit more to the side. “It’s not like distance and time are terrible inconveniences after all.”

There he’d put it out there for Dean to accept or deny. He rather hoped Dean would want to take a few days to relax without worry. He doubted he would but that was the trouble of dealing with humans and their free will.

Dean slowly got to his feet, stepping over the tub and onto the cool tile on slightly unsteady legs. Castiel reached for a towel and immediately turned to offer it to him. Dean took it with a bemused chuckle, wiping himself dry perfunctorily before wrapping it loosely around his waist; of course Cas would think of towels, but not even bother drying himself.

The angel was dripping water all over the tiled floor, and even though the air was somewhat cool in the bathroom, didn't seem to be the least bit bothered by the quickly drying moisture on his skin. Dean couldn't quite bring himself to point this out, because the view--Cas was standing a bit more loose-limbed than usual, there was a hint of a flush hanging around his neck and upper chest and his lips and hair were a complete, wrecked mess--was just hot as hell.

"Thanks," Dean muttered, hiking the towel a couple inches higher about his waist. He blinked, confused, at the offer Cas sprang at him. It was definitely not something he'd been expecting--but he'd mentioned something like it, he remembered that much, and damn the angel's faultless memory and annoying habit of picking up on things Dean wasn't sure he wanted him to know--so he shrugged, plastered a slightly forced grin onto his face and moved to the other towel.

"Yeah, not sure that's wise, Cas," he answered as he grabbed the towel off the rack and loosely draped it around Castiel's shoulders. "I remember how it whammed you good and hard that one time we went back for that twisted family reunion. No can do, buddy." And then, because he'd be lying if the thought of a break didn't twist and pull at something constricted in his chest, he added, "At least not until we get through this shit, right?"

Dean's smile changed, tilted upwards a bit and he allowed himself a couple more seconds of lazy debauchery before they had to head out there and face Sam's no doubt knowing and smug face. He dragged one hand down Castiel's chest, curled it around his hip and pulled himself closer. Cas was still warm--a lot warmer than the air in the bathroom now--and Dean chuckled, leaning in further for a quick, nibbling kiss at the angel's bottom lip. 

"After all this, we can have a holiday somewhere. Wherever the hell you want, s'long as it's somewhere warm that contains alcohol and beach umbrellas," he finished, trying instantly to push the thought--and image, Jesus--of what he'd just said out of his mind. It would be a stupid lie right now, anyway; just a couple days' worth of peace and rest that he'd have to give up about right on time to make coming back to this--chaos, war, the fucking legions of heaven and hell on their collective asses--a friggin' torture.

Castiel tilted his head to the side and with a thought he was dressed and dry while still kissing Dean, the towel still draped over his shoulders. “That was when I was cut off from the power of heaven, Dean.” He chided gently reaching out to rest his hands on Dean’s hips. “And it’d be anywhere you want Dean. If you had forgotten, lurking around with you and Sam is supposed to be my vacation. According to Azrael at least.” 

He gave Dean’s hips a gentle squeeze and slid his hands up Dean’s sides to brush his fingertips along Dean’s ribs in an almost affectionate manner. “You should sleep, Dean. I’m going to make some inquires about Bernael and the other fallen. I’ll catch up with you and Sam soon.” Castiel leaned in for another quick kiss and with a familiar rush of air took himself back to where he’d last seen Bernael.

When Dean leaned away something soft and not quite solid brushed against him, and just like that he wasn't staring at debauched-post-coital-Cas anymore but at the angel. It wasn't quite the same though, because some of the languid suppleness was still there, leeching through in the way hands drafted up Dean's sides.

He grinned, figured his little bathroom and spa vacation had just ended. "Guess we both needed a holiday, then," he shot back, just in time for Cas to totally surprise him by shuffling closer for a parting kiss and a sort of convoluted goodbye. 

And then the angel was gone, the flutter-thump of a wingbeat so damned familiar by now Dean was starting to think he might be developing something like a Pavlovian reflex. He snorted to himself and bent down to grab the towel that had fallen away from Castiel, using it to dry his hair. "Sure, yeah. That's healthy. It'll be boners when you see pigeons next," he muttered to himself, replacing the towel on the rack.

Dean hesitated for all of a second before grabbing at the door handle and exiting the bathroom. The motel room beyond was dark, Sammy sitting at the corner table in a plush, wooden-backed chair, probably pretending to be absorbed by his laptop. There was no way in hell his brother hadn't heard most of his and Cas' little escapade; Dean had been loud enough to wake the dead.

"Don't you dare say anything," he growled as he shuffled towards his own bed.

There was silence for an uncomfortable amount of time, and then Sam's voice, tight and awkward and sounding almost pained. "I swear to God, next time there's only one room? I'm bunking in your car and you can't stop me."

Dean peeled an eye open and glanced at his brother. "Yeah, can't really blame you there. Sorry."

"No you're not." Another uncomfortable pause. "And just so you know, I used to believe in angels, man. I used to think they were these--Well, you just really destroyed that image, is all I'm gonna say."

And Dean couldn't help but laugh. Because in the grand scheme of things? Seeing an otherwise uptight angel melt and buck and writhe because of him was a grand old thing in Dean's little black book of Awesome Things. And it was way too easy to feel like he was soaring right now. "You have no idea, Sammy," he chuckled, shoving himself onto his back to grin and leer at the ceiling. 

He got a pillow to the face, but Sammy was clearly trying not to laugh when he next spoke, and Dean figured he could count tonight as a good one. "You're disgusting, Dean, really," Sam said. Dean thought of angelic bodies, of the nature of sex, of how a borrowed form apparently had absolutely no gag reflex, of the way Castiel's body had gripped him, of getting Cas to move himself onto his dick... And he kept grinning.

"Hey, could be worse. I could start babbling details."

The scowl this got him was epic and all-consuming, and Dean more or less fell asleep grinning. He didn't dream.

There were still human officers investigating the scene but Castiel wasn’t worried about being seen. It wasn’t hard to follow the trail of destruction the fallen angel had left after having found the Winchesters. Remembering that Dean had said that Bernael claimed to be working on orders of Crowley, the angel cloaked himself in grace and readied himself to plunge again into the pit to find out why.

Traveling into hell was not the easiest thing for an angel, especially not alone, so even the quickest trip would take him a few days. He found hell a very different place from the last time he’d been there. The neat and orderly line that Crowley had formed for the suffering souls was gone, replaced again by endless lines of torture racks and lesser demons working suffering souls over.

There was the strangest sense of military precision in the racks and torture that rang true in the lines and Castiel quickly winged his way to where he could sense Crowley. “Crowley,” he, said revealing himself to the demon at last. “You’ve changed your… office.” He noticed Crowley was hardly in the posh office space Crowley tended to stick to.

Crowley looked up when he felt the pressure and annoying itch of something pure and angelic drift into his presence. He hadn't been having a good day--or eternity, as it were--and seeing Castiel down here should've come as more of a surprise than it actually was. "Bollocks, really? I should just install a fucking revolving door around here," he grumbled, not bothering to stand to greet the angel.

He managed a smirk and a head tilt, channeling energy he didn't have. "Fancy seeing you here, feathers. Did you miss me?" 

If things hadn't been so gone to shit, he would've conjured up something for himself, a drink, preferably, but as it was he was too exhausted to bother. Besides, with the way things were going down here, the scotch would probably turn to blood before he even had a chance to drink it. Wasteful, stuck-up, bloody annoying angels. 

But apparently that wasn't even true anymore, because as Castiel looked around the shitty office Crowley had been stuck in for what felt like forever, he noticed something definitely off about the angel. Different, at least. He raised an eyebrow.

"Well, well, well. Colour me surprised. Someone took an impressive jump recently." Crowley got up, smirking and leaning against the cheap horror that was now his desk. "Don't tell me, I can smell Winchester's stink all over you. Was it everything you dreamed of?"

Castiel fixed Crowley with a steely expression. “I see -you’ve- taken a jump downwards, someone push you off your stolen throne Crowley? Put you in charge of paper work. Was it Meg?” he shot back, tilting his head to the side. He could sense that there had been other angels around the tiny office and recently.

“Is that why you sent a fallen angel to kill the Winchesters?” There was a temptation to simply smite the demon and be done with it. But the attack on the Winchesters hadn’t seemed like Crowley’s normal style; way too brazen and direct.

Neither he nor Crowley got much of a chance to exchange more barbs because there was another thump of wings and a rush of grace that sent all of Castiel instincts screaming in alarm. He spun out of the way just as bolt of grace from the angel that had attacked him slammed into Crowley’s cheap excuse for a desk and shattered it.

“Castiel.” The fallen angel was frowning at him. His vessel was taller than Castiel’s and clad in a red suit with a red dress shirt and black tie. Pale blue eyes bore into Castiel and he scrambled to put a name to the angel.

“Mephistopheles,” he finally hissed out, drawing his angel blade. He was in far deeper than he’d expected. In hell, facing a fallen angel with a demon nearby? He’d be lucky to escape in one piece. 

“You should leave, Castiel. I don’t want to hurt you. But you can’t interfere with my plans.” Mephistopheles’ voice was strangely remorseful as he spoke. “I’m going to give you the chance to flee. Or you can die.” 

Angels of the host didn’t run away from battle, didn’t run away from fallen angels. But he was in hell and so far from heaven and the host they were barely a hum in his mind. He glanced between Crowley then back at Mephistopheles then flung himself out of hell.

"Is that why I what, mate?" Crowley answered, forehead creasing for an instant in an honest frown. He schooled his expression within a heartbeat though--not his own, of course--because whatever the hell the damned uptight little bastard thought he'd done, he clearly was making assumptions that Crowley couldn't begin to understand. 

When the burly shit in the red suit showed up and started talking instead of crashing the angel to bits, Crowley's brain went into overdrive. His mouth ran on automatic, launching a, "You slimy fucker, that was my desk!" that had little to do with any sort of pride or actual possessive feelings about the clearly cheap furniture. 

He was reeling, face a carefully controlled mask of fake rage; inside, he started organizing his thoughts, fast as lightning between one moment and the next. Azrael was down here. Clearly the Winchesters' little toy angel didn't know this. Castiel, poor little creature that he was, thought he'd sent a fallen angel after his boys; how the angel could've come to that conclusion, Crowley had no idea, but if Castiel had made the trip down here then he obviously was worried.

Something big was going down, something that had little if nothing to do with Azrael wanting to sit his dainty ass in Crowley's most favourite chair. And if he had to kiss ass to find out, well... Crowley would do just that.

He sent Mephistopheles a curious look and a shrug when the angel disappeared. "Well, that was a monumental waste of my time. And my desk. Fancy asking your pissy boss for a replacement, love?" And behind that, under his facade of cool detachment, he was grinning; trust, after all, was easy enough to achieve, and he'd play the bitch's little game as far as it could go until he could wriggle out of this fucking hellhole and get a message upstairs. 

He was fairly sure the trio of idiots would kill to hear what he had to say. And, if he had his way, he'd be back on his damned office chair before Azrael ever even knew what he'd done. Either that or he'd be off on an extended leave of absence somewhere while everything went to shit.

Crowley kicked despondently at a burning ember of his desk. This, he thought, would require care, because he was fairly sure that the option of an extended vacation wouldn't quite take him away from whatever Azrael was planning. And if the little shit thought Crowley would sit back while he went and did whatever the hell he was planning, he'd have another thing coming. Hell was, to be perfectly honest, a rather shit place to be. But up top? Well, Crowley would have to admit to being somewhat enamoured of up top, and he had no more intention of seeing it burn now than he'd had when everything lazy and debauched and sinful and violent had been hanging in the balance of a massive angelic pissing contest.

Earth was his goddamned playground, and he sure as shit wasn't going to sit by and watch it disintegrate. Especially not on the whim of some two-bit archangel that he should've been able to crush with his eyes closed months ago.

"I'm parched, Mephy dearest," he added, "Think you could persuade her highness to manifest some proper drink down here?"

Mephistopheles fixed Crowley with a long look. “Ask him yourself, demon,” he said shortly and with a rush the burly angel had vanished. Leaving Crowley alone in his wrecked office, but not for very long. A few short moments after Mephistopheles was gone Azrael drifted in.

Azrael hadn’t even been in hell most of the time sense he’d taken over. He’s left Mephistopheles and the other fallen to run things. That was the beauty of having a third of the heavenly host in hell; they still acted like good little soldiers when faced with an archangel and his orders.

“Crowley, you’ve redecorated,” the archangel said cheerfully. “Or Mephistopheles has. He was always better at smashing first and asking questions later.” With a snap of his fingers the angel fixed Crowley’s desk. “A little bird tells me Castiel was here talking to you. Tell me, pet, whatever did you say to my dear little brother?”

Azrael fixed Crowley with a wide eyed, expectant look. He was holding something tightly with his grace and keeping it just out of Crowley’s sight until the Demon had answered him. Really he didn’t want to have to trot down to hell every time there was a disturbance but this he had to deal with himself. As if in an unconscious action mirror Crowley’s normal attire, the archangel was in a white suit with pin striping, even his dress shirt and tie where white, though the tie had a subtle pattern to it.

Crowley didn't have time to even blink before the red-suited angel was gone and Azrael--he stifled a hiss--popped up in his place. "Your little bird is too damned late, but he's right, oh great leader," he muttered, kicking away a piece of his still smoking desk. Which, surprise, surprise, didn't so much as tumble away as disappear when the archangel snapped his fingers and his horrid, disgusting and hated desk was once more standing in his office. 

Safe and sound, and still god-awful. Lovely. Crowley could kill whoever had invented melamine. 

"I didn't have time to say a single fucking thing, actually. Your slick pal with the dress sense out of the forties got here before I so much as opened my trap." He paused, re-evaluated what he'd just said and had to honestly shake his head. The grin that tugged at the corners of his lips wasn't even faked.

"In fact, no, that's not true. I remarked on the stench of human that seemed to be following Cassie around. To be honest, I was expecting more of a shocked virgin reaction from your darling little brother." Crowley chuckled. "Shame. Guess I should've been more explicit."

Finally, he turned fully towards Azrael and, despite himself, quirked an eyebrow. "Nice suit, love. Share your tailor? My favourite human pet met with some unfortunate end some time ago."

Azrael tilted his head to the side then looked down at his suit and let out a delighted laugh. “You know, I must say you demons do have decent dress sense. Though I find suspenders to be greatly amusing,” he said, unbuttoning his sport coat and hooking his thumbs in the suspenders he was wearing. “They are quite entertaining.”

He adjusted his sport jacket and smiled slightly. “Were you not a tailor in your human life?” he asked cheerfully. “Perhaps I should have you do that instead of paperwork. You do seem very bored in here all alone.” He looked around the office and rocked on his heels absently.

“Which is why I’ve brought you a few little presents. Consider them a reward for not giving up the punch line my dear little bro. That would ruin all of my fun, and that would make me so cross.” Azrael twisted his wrist lazily plucking something out of the air with a bit of grace.

What he produced was an elegant kukri knife with a detailed scroll work of filigree along that blade that hard wood and precious metal in the grip continued. “Tell me what you think of this, pet,” he said, flipping the blade to present it grip first to Crowley.

Crowley's face thankfully didn't display any of the rage that rose up when Azrael--smarmy little feathered worm--suggested his time would be better spent as a glorified servant for some nobbed-up angel with ideas above his station. He nodded his head good-naturedly, eyeing the suspenders with a sort of wary contempt that he could only hope the archangel didn't pick up on.

Suspenders were classic, really. Clearly heaven drained the very soul out of its own creatures. 

"I am bored. Out of my skull, in fact." Crowley didn't perk up at the mention of presents, mostly because his first thought was that Azrael was about to spring something nasty on him, and so his flinch when a knife was produced, flipped expertly in one dainty hand and flicked towards him was totally unfortunate and expected.

He gingerly reached for the knife and slid it out of Azrael's grasp. It was, he had to admit, sturdy and well-made, and though Crowley didn't sense anything particularly powerful about the blade in his hand he was fairly certain this wasn't just some nameless piece of steel. "It's a knife," he deadpanned, keeping the 'you wanker' to himself.

Crowley flipped the knife over in his hand, and the line of innocent-looking filigree twisted and snarled in his vision, like miniature snakes, loops and curls curving along the blade. He chuckled, low and petty and nasty, flipping the knife once more a few times, just to see and feel the writing twist pleasantly. "Well, what d'you know... It's an angel-killing knife. Fancy that."

And it was, the writing--more like sketches, like whorls and curlicues that translated themselves into words--detailing a sort of hidden sigil, painstakingly crafted and disguised as a pattern. It wasn't much, just a simple incantation that Crowley couldn't read, and the fact that the letters burned and twisted in his retina confirmed that they weren't demonic at all. And the knife felt just a tad too heavy in his hand, its handle almost weightless as all the weight seemed concentrated in the etched blade.

He hesitated just long enough to make a point, then swiftly turned the knife over and handed it, hilt first, back to Azrael. "Should I even ask what you intend to do with this? Or where you found it?"

Azrael plucked the knife back and twirled it around his hand with easy of someone so familiar with blades they could handle them in their sleep and smiled widely. “Well normally angel-killing blades have to be angel-blades themselves, pet. But this,” he tapped the tip of the blade lightly, “is something that can be mass produced with nothing more than a bit of spell work and a sigil.”

Wiggling his eye brows at Crowley the archangel tilted his head. “Now what do you think I would want with an angel-killing blade that can be mass produced?” he asked, tucking the blade away. “Never mind don’t answer that. It’ll ruin the punch line. But I have another present for you.”

This time Azrael snapped his fingers and a much bedraggled and haggard looking Meg apparent. It looked quite like she’d been worked over several times by some of the less gentle hands in hell. “Rumor has it you two,” Azrael’s grin turned absolutely vicious as he spoke. “know each other. Dearest Meg here is firmly on my poor, poor imprisoned brother's side, and you, my pet, are not.”

Meg didn’t speak, she only looked between Crowley and Azrael, her expression a tight mixture of loathing and fear. “So I’ve decided you two get to work together,” Azrael said, clapping his hands together. “As a reminder. If you turn on me, either of you, the other one gets hell, and you to pull into tiny, tiny pieces for all of eternity. Is that clear, my lovelies?” 

He didn’t wait for either demon's reply he just vanished, leaving Meg behind.

"Well, there goes the rest of that lovely six-course meal," Crowley griped under his breath as Meg appeared at his side. She didn't look too much worse for wear, and Crowley allowed himself a faint hum of disappointment at that. Meg turned and gave him a look so full of scorn and hatred he almost reached out instinctively to rip her apart. But of course he couldn't, not while Azrael was still holding his leash, so to speak.

Crowley's lips did a passable imitation of a sneer when Meg opened her trap to speak. "Hey, I don't like this anymore'n you do, sunshine," and her voice, as mellow and too soft as it was, still grated on his senses, every soft, cut-off syllable so annoying to him he could've howled. 

"Didn't anyone ever teach you to enunciate when you bark, love?"

The pissed off look she sent him was almost worth the subsequent re-destruction of his goddamned desk.

Sam hadn't been driving long when he finally pulled over into the first motel he could see; it wasn't much, just a typical roadside affair, its facade more than a bit shabby, the paint peeling and crackling even in the dying light. The sign showing 'VACANCY' was buzzing and sputtering when Sam drove under it, one letter threatening to give up entirely and make the sign complete gibberish. 

Still, it was freedom, of a sort, and more than he'd hoped to get after so long spent under Dean's often stupidly intense scrutiny. It had taken a lot to get Dean to agree to let him go after the next stone alone, and in the end he'd had to resort to underhanded tactics, pulling out the awkward card and completely pulling the rug from under his brother's feet. 

It hadn't even been that much of a challenge; Sam had needed to know he could still do this on his own, true, but he'd also needed to get the hell away from Dean, and from the sometimes oppressive hugeness of whatever his brother thought he was doing with Cas. He'd dealt with Dean coming back with random bedmates for years, but waking up and having to face Castiel after three hours of non-stop moaning and shuffling and random bursts of electrical hazard was really redefining his level of comfort-zone-adequate silence.

Especially since the angel seemed to like to pretend nothing untoward had ever happened and Sam had to stare at his brother's stupid, glazed-over and totally fucked-out look nearly every other day. 

In the end he'd only had to say, "Look, Dean, I get it, I really do, but you and Cas..." before Dean had caved and all but thrown him the keys to the Impala, glowering as though he'd half expected Sam to continue the discussion. Which Sam had had no intention of doing, thank you very much. It was one thing to be okay on principle with the idea of Dean finally grasping for something a bit more permanent than a 'Candy, from the bar, remember?' and yet quite another thing entirely to hear the evidence of it for hours straight, without pause, nearly every single time Cas showed up.

And while hearing just how stupidly vocal Dean apparently was getting now had been entertaining the very first time, it was starting to seriously get freaky and annoying, and Sam had had to get out of there before he said something nasty and they had a fight on their hands. 

When he finally checked into his hotel room, the first thing he did after dropping his bag and closing the door behind him was just to stand and breathe, taking in the silence that once would've been oppressing and worrying.

It sure as hell wasn't, now. "Oh, thank God," he muttered as he threw the key somewhere onto the bed and flopped down after it. Blessed silence, and a room all to himself with no chance of walking in on anything totally traumatizing or, worse, interrupting something and then having to deal with Dean's epic bad mood the morning after. Bliss in the feel of this single unmade bed underneath him. Bliss in the utter calm and silence of the room around him. Bliss even in the way nobody threw a pillow at him because he'd dared snicker at another helplessly intense, too long and too soft look between his idiotic brother and Cas.

Sam loved his brother, he really did, but right now, he loved peace and quiet a whole hell of a lot more.

“Ooo, they have Casa Erocita XIV, it’s supposed to be very German.” There as always had been no soft rustle of wings when Gabriel popped into the room. Though the archangel was looking a bit more careworn than normal he was happily munching away on a candy bar. “Finally escape the gag-inducing soap opera that our bros have been living lately, kiddo?”

Even care worn, Gabriel seemed to be in good spirits. He flopped bonelessly onto the rather ratty couch that furnished the hotel room and sprawled on his side, head resting against his open palm, to smirk at Sam. “So it’s been a while since our last private heart to heart, Sammy. You look tense, care to unload a bit?”

“Perhaps some angel on freakishly large moose man hanky panky will relax you a bit.” He waggled his eyebrows at Sam comically but had no intentions of anything other than talking to the younger Winchester. That didn’t mean he couldn't get a few laughs out while he was doing it. “I can set the mood. I do Amazon strippers really well.”

Sam, to his everlasting credit, managed to swallow his yelp as a voice--a strangely familiar one--resounded in the silence of the motel room. He pushed himself off his face and twisted, one hand flailing wildly for any sort of weapon and only just slightly relaxing when he caught sight of the figure lounging bonelessly on the couch.

The smirk, the shock of unkempt blond hair and those ridiculously smug eyes would've had him crawling for his backpack if it weren't for the fact that Dean had apparently seen Gabriel not a few weeks past and managed to hold a conversation with the trickster-turned-archangel without it turning to bloodshed. Then again, Sam only had Dean's vague recollections of this to go on.

Of course, the second the actual words registered, he was blinking in dumbfounded shock. And then, because the months hadn't been kind, Sam was laughing, falling back onto his bed with a strangely helpless guffaw that had little to do with Gabriel's jokes and a whole lot to do with the fact that an archangel had just popped in to apparently throw sassy jokes at him about his brother's sex life.

"Shit, okay," he managed once he could think straight, shuffling his body forwards and onto the edge of the bed. He twisted towards Gabriel, blinked, and ran what had just come out of his mouth through his brain. Considering that Dean was apparently now messing around with an angel himself, Sam felt a slight correction was required. "I mean, uh, no. Not okay. To anything you just said. No strippers. No..." Sam's face scrunched up in a slight, mortified sneer. "No freaky stuff. Dean said you'd somehow survived," he essayed, only now noting how bedraggled Gabriel looked.

It wasn't much, and he probably wouldn't have noticed it if he hadn't been looking for it, but the archangel didn't look quite as plum and smug as he once had. "Guess he was right. And, no, thanks, if a heart to heart involves you putting me through another wringer made of time loops, I'm good."

Something about soap operas made him pause though, and he dissolved into a sarcastic chuckle before he could help himself. "Though, yeah, you have no idea how bad those two get. I mean, I understand the mechanics of a sock on the door handle, but Dean's not even bothering with that anymore. I've seen and heard things I really didn't want to either see or hear." Sam paused, digested this for a moment and finally asked the question that had been nagging at him since the beginning of this.

Aside from all the questions currently lining up in a queue about fallen angels and mystical stones, of course. "Is, uh... Is this even allowed? I mean, not this," Sam pointed hurriedly at himself then at Gabriel, a brief look of confused horror crossing his features, "I mean, what Dean is doing. I mean, Jesus, okay, the whole 'corrupting an angel' thing." Another pause, and this time Sam actually blinked and stood up. "Obviously barking up the wrong tree here in terms of holy purity, but my question still stands."

“I didn’t survive, Kiddo. Metatron brought me back to assist in getting things together for him when he wakes up,” Gabriel said with a small smile that was more honest than his normal toothy trickster grin. He was pleased he’d made Sam laugh but that didn’t really show through.

“I promise no time loops this time. Just talk like normal people, well as normal as an archangel that’s been playing pagan for most of the time mankind has been about, and a giant half man half moose can talk. Can I make you into a super hero? Spandex and a bitchin’ pair of antlers would make the best superhero ever.” Gabriel watched Sam with all the interest of a small child towards something shiny. He took a bite of his candy bar and listened to Sam’s questions with a smirk.

“There are no official rules against it. More just the host as a whole looking down their noses at you if you get too chummy with the ‘little hairless apes’ as my brothers call you.” Gabriel spun around to sit upside down on the couch and peered up at Sam. “Personally I think this is good sign. One of the few things Castiel’s done with the free will he’s fighting for.”

"What is it with all you otherworldly freaks of nature and calling me a moose? I swear, it's like there's a memo system we didn't get told about," Sam griped, watching Gabriel twist and shift on the couch in a way that would've seemed a bit more appropriate for a lean cheerleader's form than the slightly soft--and surprisingly short--shape of the archangel. 

The wonder rose up unbidden in his mind--were all angels somewhat untethered and loose, like circus artists?--and he almost physically recoiled because the thought was immediately accompanied by the knowledge that Dean would just love that. And there was another thing he hadn't needed to think about regarding his brother and his angel. The possessive pronoun wasn't really necessary, but considering recent events, it sure didn't feel quite as ridiculous as it once had to think of Cas as Dean's own personal angel.

Sam frowned, but his heart wasn't in it. "Yeah, well. Dean... doesn't need to be going around teaching angels about sex. I mean, trust me, his ego in that department is already big enough to warrant getting him a P.O. box for it. It's practically an entity in and of itself," he said, sitting back down on the edge of the bed a bit warily. Gabriel's upside-down smirk was making him jittery and he shifted, before adding, "And if somehow spandex is mentioned again, ever, I swear..."

He paused, wondering what sort of threats would work on Gabriel. Somehow his first thought of 'I'm going to make you eat your shiny trumpet' sounded bad even to his own brain; no doubt Dean, if he were here, and Gabriel himself, would manage to turn it into some sort of lewd, embarrassing joke. "Just don't," he finished lamely. After another few seconds spent critically examining Gabriel's face for any sign that the archangel was about to turn smarmy trickster on him, Sam finally relaxed.

And asked what had actually been on his mind the whole time. He, apparently, wasn't as easily distracted by shimmery angel tricks as he used to be--or as his brother was now, and, yeah, another thought he didn't need right there--and the knowledge that they were running headlong into a sort of massive civil war had been grating on his conscience for some time now.

"So, what's really going on? We're chasing after keystones, and, okay, I get that they're important, but apparently everyone else has been busy. So you're, what, just dropping by for a bit of a chit chat?" he asked, before remembering who he was talking to. "And if you say this is actually a booty call, I might kick you. Don't think I won't."

“Yeah, there was a memo that came around right when you were born, Sammy. We all got it, it read ‘And lo ye shall call Samuel Winchester, ‘Moose’.” Gabriel smirked and finished off his candy bar cheerfully. 

“I’m sort of sharking work, okay?” Gabriel said with an upside down shrug. “Mostly because my brothers are the huge whining bratty group of bitchy girls, and I really don’t feel like stopping another one of Azrael and Raphael’s cat fights.”

“I’m starting to think that maybe I should just vanish again because if I have to hear Raphy whining ‘Weh Gabriel, Azrael pulled my hair again’ or some nonsense, I might just get violent.” The archangel squirmed on the couch and fished around in his pockets before producing a package of twizzlers. He ripped it open and offered one to Sam without a word.

“But unfortunately for me, Metatron’s given the order that I’m to wrangle my douche bag family into line. So I gotta listen.” He heaved a sigh and looked mournfully up at Sam.

"Right, okay. Yeah, that makes perfect sense," Sam answered, hesitating only about a half second before reaching to grab the liquorice that was thrust his way. He peered at it warily, because this was the first time he'd seen Gabriel actually sharing his damned candy, and he had to admit he was a bit unsure what that meant. Maybe the angel wasn't lying when he said he was sick and tired of his family's 'little' feuds--God knew Sam could sympathize there--or maybe he'd wake up after eating this innocent-looking piece of candy to find he'd actually grown antlers and was wearing spandex, as promised.

Sam wouldn't put anything past Gabriel's restless need for entertainment at this point. Still, he stuck the twizzler between his teeth and chewed. Mostly for something to do, and partly because, he supposed, an eternity of dealing with the sort of bullshit fighting he and Dean had known for the past few years sort of excused some of Gabriel's quirks.

Though he would never admit that out loud. Nor would he admit that the forced, hurt-puppy look Gabriel was currently stretching to throw him--still upside down, no less--was sort of cute, in an excruciatingly awkward and distressing way. 

"So, Metatron's a big-guns sort of guy, is he?" he essayed carefully, digging for information. "That was the sigil we found on the scroll, wasn't it? The one Dean got from the sphinxes." Sam had no idea what that meant; he mulled it over, mulled everything over, chewing distractedly on the soft candy while his face sort of glazed over. Metatron was big, so the Christian lore said. The voice of God big, even. The sort of being that wouldn't, probably, get involved just because one short archangel had been shirking his brotherly duties.

Something about the way Gabriel had chosen his words struck him as odd, and he nodded at the still-sprawled archangel, swallowing the rest of the twizzler stick only to find most of his teeth gummed with it. Lovely. "You 'gotta'?" he asked, bravely resisting the urge to emulate Castiel and air-quote the word. "I'm guessing when Metatron speaks, even you have to get in line, then?"

There was a thread of hope there, even if it was tempered by a buzzing, worrying terror; archangels were pretty much it. The biggest thing they'd seen or met, barring the horsemen, maybe, and anything that could make Gabriel bend at the knees was either a fabulous potential ally or really, really bad news.

“Metatron is…”Gabriel tilted his head to the side and chewed on a twizler thoughtfully. “ Metatron is the only angel that was ever a human. He was a wise man that lived around about the time Lucifer first fell. And he did something that made God turn him into an angel. But not just any angel, Metatron ended up being the nearly literal voice of god. Only things more powerful than him are Death and God.” 

“Metatron speaks and any angel alive has to listen. There’s not even the chance to think about it.“ Gabriel shrugged slightly. “Then again, angels are all about intent and obeying, really. The whole freewill thing is really something we have to learn to do.” 

“He’s been asleep since God vamoosed out of heaven, so that gave Michael and the god squad the chance to, well, fuck everything up. Now he’s waking up and sort of pissed. Or at least very displeased about it all. I can tell you this; I do not want to be whoever it that’s stirring up the fallen. As far as heavenly reamings go that one is going to last a long time.” Gabriel made a little ‘what can you do about it’ gesture and chewed on his candy. He hadn’t told Sam anything that couldn’t be shared, besides, it was important the kids knew what was going down in heaven. It probably would end up having something to do with them anyways. 

He’d taken it on himself to sort of watch out for the Winchesters over the years and wasn’t about to try and lead them around by the nose now. It wouldn’t work and would only make them do exactly what he didn’t want them to do.

Sam listened in stunned silence until Gabriel had said his piece, and if he'd still had some candy left it would be hanging suspended near his mouth as he all-out gaped before he caught himself and coughed. "Well... I'll be honest, I was expecting you to bullshit me. So thanks, I guess. I suppose Dean probably got a version of what you just said. Of course what we got out of him was..." Sam snorted, choosing his words carefully. "Well, it was condensed, I'll tell you that much."

He got up, stretching briefly by the side of the bed because, dammit, whenever he was around the archangel he always felt just a tad too gangly, about a couple feet too tall and in the possession of way too many long limbs, and shuffled over to the closed mini-bar. The plastic tab snapped when he opened it, pinging somewhere behind him, and Sam drew out two rather disappointing local beers before straightening up. He chucked one at Gabriel's midsection, totally unconcerned about where it fell, and opened the other for himself.

Sam wasn't much for drinking, that was Dean's forte, but he felt he was due a heading-towards-another-clusterfuck drink right this minute.

"So, um, angels all about obeying, are they? I'm guessing it doesn't work if I just go and order you to stop all this madness." It really wasn't worth the shot of asking, but Sam figured it was better than dwelling on the alternative thought that sprung up, namely that Dean, if he'd heard this, would have probably twisted it every which way and managed to make his already unbearable 'thing' with Cas even more embarrassing to witness.

"Speaking of which, I've been meaning to ask. What's up with the exploding light bulbs? I mean, really, I should be used to the whole radio going wild, electrical oddities and such, but... I'm pretty sure it's, well, it's Cas." That, he felt, summarized this whole mess pretty well. 'It's Cas', like that excused and explained everything, and maybe for Dean, it did. Somehow Sam managed to hide his smile behind the neck of his bottle of beer.

Gabriel caught the beer and peered at it. “No, ordering me around won’t do you any sort of good, Kiddo,” he said with a smirk. “It’s part of the angelic hierarchy. Angels are built to follow orders; mostly those orders come down the chain of command. It’s instinct really.” He twisted around and sat the proper way up so he could open the beer. 

“It wouldn’t surprise me if Castiel is however doing what Dean says just because it’s easier. Not that the sleeping together thing is part of that. But in other matters? I’m pretty sure that he’s doing things that he doesn’t agree with because your bro told him to.” The archangel shrugged again. “It’s easier to follow orders than do the whole free will thing. That’s why the entire host followed Michael. Because he was the big dog, and he gave the orders, and angels are built to obey. So they all obeyed. Even the ones that knew he was lying about God’s will obeyed.” 

Gabriel opened his beer and took a drink. “As for the light shows? Angelic grace likes to dick with electricity and when we’re distracted we don’t pay as much attention as we need to our grace.” Gabriel shrugged. “And since Dean and Cas are doing the horizontal tango, it’s a good bet he’s been distracted.”

"Well, that's not disturbing at all," Sam answered, pulling a face and staring fixedly at his beer. "Let's just... avoid the whole topic forever, okay? Good." It hit a little too close to the truth, anyway, and Sam couldn't help but think back on all those stupidly longing looks, the endless bouts of just staring at each other, and how in the hell had Dean managed to take so damn long to do anything about it? It certainly wasn't his brother's M.O., and that spoke volumes, even if Sam dismissed the thorny issues of 'angel' and 'more or less male, for the moment'. 

The first one had probably presented more of a problem, much as Sam was loathe to admit. There were too many things concerning Dean's nighttime habits that he simply wasn't comfortable thinking about. This, he supposed, was just another slight indiscretion, even if it seemed to positively bathe in desecration and all sorts of good old righteous mumbo-jumbo that, since he was sharing a beer with an archangel, Sam guessed was all pretty moot details, at this point.

This was far from what he'd had in mind when he'd first shaken Castiel's--an actual angel's!--hand in some forgettable motel room, what felt like ages ago, on the eve of Halloween.

He tucked the knowledge about angels and orders at the back of his mind, though, an interesting tidbit of information that his mind latched onto as potentially useful, filing it away all neat and proper along with the rest of the wealth of knowledge he'd acquired over the years. 

"You don't strike me as particularly obedient, so I guess there's something to be said about the leopard changing his shorts," he said, voice coloured by something close to hope. Because, after all, if heaven's perfect little soldiers could go against programming, it must mean that even some half-bred, broken thing could stop vibrating with the pull of demon blood long enough to make an informed decision, when the time came, and not pull the entire damn world into an Apocalypse. Again.

Sam could only hope that wasn't wishful thinking speaking.

“I’ve had plenty of time to figure out the whole free will thing, Kiddo. Now of course obeying orders is a bit like squeezing into pants ten years old.” Gabriel shrugged slightly. “Castiel’s on the way to learning that refusing to help you two knuckle heads won’t cause his world to end.”

The archangel finished his beer and stood up. “Welp. This was oddly relaxing,” He said looking around. “Very therapeutic. But I think I hear my dear, dear little bros getting into another slap fight. And I should probably stop them from fucking each other up again.” With that he sighed and vanished.


	17. Heaven Approved

Castiel had vanished from hell and went directly to heaven to talk to Gabriel. Only to find Gabriel gone, off hiding from his duties in heaven instead of cleaning things up. So he visited with some of his lieutenants and found where the civil war was standing.

It was no surprise to find Azrael missing again. Azrael, he’d learned, was rarely in heaven since Gabriel’s return. Instead he vanished for long periods of time and returned looking smug if a bit worn. There was a general up cry in the host shortly after Castiel’s return, and the screams of Azrael and Raphael fighting again.

Castiel shouldn’t have bothered to go try and pull them apart but he didn’t want to be so close to his brothers while they fought and do nothing. Even as he prepared to wade into the madness Gabriel returned and with a few blows banished all the combatants to separate ‘corners’ of heaven, and sent Castiel fluttering down to where Bobby was.

Bobby had taken the boys with him to speak to sheriff Mills. It seemed something big and toothy was snacking on tourists in town. The sheriff thought it was Bobby’s sort of thing, and Bobby thought it as their sort of thing considering the tourists were turning up with their livers chewed out.

The Sheriff started and went for her gun when Castiel popped up out of nowhere, looking rather ruffled. “Whoa, Jodi. This is Castiel, he’s a friend,” Bobby said, holding up his hands.

“He just appeared out of thin air, Bobby,” Jodi shot back, frowning at Castiel.

“Yeah, well he does that,” Bobby said, glancing at Castiel, who shrugged.

It was several days until Cas showed up again, and after Sam had come back more or less victorious, if a little banged up, from his solo hunt for one of the stones, Dean had been near climbing the walls. Logic and reason dictated that Cas had shit to do upstairs, and this sort of little absence wasn’t anything new; still, he was pretty sure he was starting to grate on Sam’s nerves something fierce. Between the time he’d returned to Bobby’s and Sam coming back, Dean had had absolutely shit-all nothing to do except mess around with the Impala and obsessively cleaning out his guns.

Both of which he had way too much of in the past few days.

He could’ve wandered off in search of somebody to warm his bed, but every damn time he so much as entertained the idea his brain unhelpfully provided him with memories of a hotel bathtub. Hell, even his baby wasn’t safe anymore, though the dent on the hood had been magically mojoed away almost as soon as it had gotten there.

So, it had to be said that it was a little bit unfair that Cas would show up while he, Sam and Bobby were having a semi-serious conversation about the creature currently stalking the neighborhood. For one thing, he certainly couldn’t do anything, though the rustling thump of the angel’s arrival did have him whirring around, and he was fighting back a grin which, he supposed, was better than the alternative of sulking about Cas’ unexplained absence. 

Sam was the first to speak up after Bobby had explained the angel’s arrival. “Hey, Cas. You, uh, look a bit…” He raised a long arm up and waved vaguely at his own shaggy hair. “You know, ruffled.”

Dean nodded absent-mindedly, allowing himself a brief—in his opinion, not lingering at all, so Sammy’s snort was altogether nasty and completely uncalled-for—look down at the angel. Cas looked in one piece, though he was, as Sam had pointed out, a bit more disheveled and rumpled than usual. Dean’s fingers twitched, but he resisted the impulse to straighten out the tie.

“Yeah, man. Thought you’d gotten the hang of landings by now,” he quipped, shoving his hands deep, deep, deep in his jacket pockets, where they’d be less likely to do something foolish without his permission.

Castiel self consciously tugged at his trench coat and looked around. “Landings are always hard when you’re sent somewhere rather than go there on your own.” He said frowning and looking around the group of humans. He did look ruffled though just like he’d been trying to pull apart a cat fight. 

“Azrael and Raphael had another one of their…disagreements.” Was all the explanation he gave as he carefully worked to set himself to rights.

Jodi blinked. “Anyone want explain how someone popping out of thin air is normal?” She asked looking Castiel up and down.

“Jodi, this would be Castiel. He’s a friend.” Bobby said adjusting his hat clearly unsure how much to tell the Sheriff.

“Look I know you guys handle weird stuff, but people just teleporting in is not normal.” The Sheriff was getting impatient.

“I’m an angel of the lord.” Castiel said with a sigh. 

“…SO angels are real?” 

“Among many other things.”

Jodi looked something between curious and resigned and Bobby just shook his head. “Cas is real good at the blunt truth, Jodi.” He muttered.

“I’ve found that lying generally comes back to bite you later on.” Castiel said blankly.

Dean fought back a flinch. “Yeah well, maybe you just weren’t cut out to be president, Cas,” he muttered, just low enough for the angel to hear. Nobody else would likely understand what he’d meant, anyway. He turned hurriedly towards Bobby and Sheriff Mills and cleared his throat. “So, we doing this or what? Liver-eating mofo, what have we got so far?” 

At his side, Sam shot him a disbelieving look. “Wait, wait, wait, that’s it? Jesus, Dean, the way you’ve been acting, it sounded like Cas had gone off to fight the second coming all on his own and now he says Raphael and Azrael are having at each other again and that’s all you say? Let’s move on to the next hunt?”

There was an awkward bit of silence, and Dean stared at his brother with something close to betrayed shock on his face. Mostly, he stared at anyone but at Castiel, because it was one thing to get all handsy with a guy and quite another to be publicly reminded that you’d been acting like a lovestruck school girl for a week. Jesus, he’d even started—secretly, of course, he wasn’t that much in a hurry for Sam to humiliate his ass from here to the sun—making a mixtape of stuff Cas hadn’t downright hated during their various car trips.

It was disgusting, and totally and unhealthily unlike him, but at the time it’d seemed like a good idea, and since most of the music wasn’t bad, per se—not Sam-bad, at least—Dean had figured it couldn’t hurt not to put the angel through his AC/DC to Zeppelin alphabetical tracklist again. He had no idea where that damned tape had even disappeared to, now.

“What? I didn’t say he’d—And anyway, those two have been at each other’s throats since the first. The hell d’you want me to do about it? Dicks’ll be dicks. No offense, Cas,” he added, chancing a glance at the angel, hands still firmly in his pockets.

Castiel tilted his head to the side curiously his eyes getting that distant ‘angel radio’ look that he seemed to get when paying more attention to the host than the people round him. Both Raphael and Azrael where still causing trouble in heaven, if only by picking at each other from a distance.

Jodi blinked and looked between the group. “I’m never going to get used to what you guys call ‘normal’.” She said hooking her thumbs in her gun belt and cocking a hip up as she watched the brother’s banter.

Bobby chuckled and shook his head. “No one really gets used to it Jodi, they just stop being surprised.” He said but he didn’t get a chance to say more. In the time it took him to speak Azrael had appeared just in front of Castiel.

The archangel’s blue eyes were wild, pupils fully dilated in an expression that was a strange combination of outrage and glee. Azrael was even breathing heavily, sucking in deep gulps of air he didn’t really need as if he was trying to slow a racing heart. He’d fixed Castiel with his gaze and the other angel’s expression was steely, the minute tightening around the eyes and mouth showing how pissed he really was. 

Neither of them spoke for a long moment, before Azrael jerked and whirled around to stare in the direction of Jodi’s patrol car. One minute he was looking at empty air and the next Raphael was filling the space he’d been looking at. The two archangels stared at each other for a moment before Raphael lunged across the space between them, his silver archangel blade out and aimed right for Azrael’s heart.

Azrael twisted right out the way, so narrowly escaping the lunge that the snarl of the angel blade cutting through his expensive silk dress shirt could be heard. Not missing a beat, Azrael lashed out physically and with his grace, kicking out with one high-heel clad foot and smashing through Raphael’s defense with a hammer like blow from his grace.

Raphael went flying back and skidded to a halt just short of slamming into the Impala. Azrael didn’t give him a chance to get his bearings; there was a rustle and Azrael had vanished then reappeared in front of the other archangel. Raphael was fast enough to thrust his blade at the neck of the other archangel’s vessel.

But Azrael seemed one step ahead of him still, reaching up to catch Raphael’s wrist and shaking his own blade free of his sleeve in the same movement. He drove the blade towards Raphael’s stomach in a vicious stab. 

Raphael wrenched himself free, his empty hand clamping over the puncture in his midsection. Even as he stumbled back he flung blows of pure grace at Azrael which drove the other archangel back blow by massive blow. 

When they stopped, Azrael straightened up with a series of hollow cracks and pops from his vessel’s joints. But he didn’t stay standing straight, opposed to the normal angel knife fighting style Azrael flipped his grip on his blade and held it reversed then dropped into a crouch that was low to the ground and kept him hunkered in a tight stance.

The two archangels faced off for a moment before Azrael darted in closer and slashed out at Raphael in a series of rapid darting back and forth movements. It was more like watching an animal fight than the way angels normally fought and it threw Raphael off which left him open to nearly half of those attacks. 

The exchange ended with another invisible blow of grace from Azrael that knocked Raphael off his feet. The dark skinned archangel ended up pinned on his back, cut and bleeding from a dozen places and seemingly unable to rise. Azrael stood straight again and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. There was a nasty cut along his midsection that left that expensive shirt cut and hanging low to expose a healthy expanse of pale skin.

“I warned you about attempting to ambush me, Raphael,” Azrael scolded as he paced towards the other archangel, absently popping his neck as he walked. “Didn’t I?” He purposefully stepped on Raphael’s stomach the sharp heel of the high heeled shoe his vessel wore stabbing into the puncture his angel blade had left there. 

Raphael only sucked in a pained breath and glared up at Azrael.

The second Azrael appeared in front of Castiel, Dean took a startled step back, hissing out a curse under his breath and glaring at the archangel. “Well, I’m never gonna get used to it, especially when—Oh, fuck,” he finished with feeling, staring at the spot just a few paces away from Jodi’s car, where Raphael was now standing. 

The first few blows exchanged were almost too swift to see, but Dean somehow managed to snap his gun out and train it a bit uncertainly in the general vicinity of the fighting angels. 

“Nice reflexes, Dean. Useful,” Sam huffed at his side, jogging towards Sheriff Mills and urging her several feet away from the fight.

Dean glared at his brother and stuck his gun back into his jeans, following a couple steps behind Sam. Something like a wave of pressure nearly flattened him against the side of a nearby van and he stayed there, shouting for Bobby and Sam to stay back. Azrael had just launched something at the other archangel—mojo, grace, whatever the hell they called it, Dean didn’t care—and it packed a hell of a punch, even as indirect as the hit had been. 

His eyes met Sam’s, and the unspoken dialogue was clear as day. Sammy nodded, pulled at Jodi’s arm again and simply went, “Run.”

They had no way of knowing who would come out on top, though judging from the way Raphael almost slammed directly into the Impala, the fight was looking to be heavily weighed in Azrael’s favor. The cynical part of Dean’s brain still wasn’t sure which of these two was the bigger dick, but Azrael certainly seemed less inclined to rip them all to pieces.

And if this went down the shitter, they’d have an even bigger problem on their hands; they’d ganked angels before, of course, but Raphael could apparently black out a good portion of the country’s electricity with a thought and a happy little flutter of his wings. If Azrael killed him, Dean had absolutely no idea what would happen, but he sure as hell didn’t want either Sammy or Bobby to stick around to find out. Nor himself, if he was being honest. 

“Cas!” he barked, dragging himself away from the sight of Azrael grinding a heeled shoe straight into the other archangel’s stomach. He winced. “Think maybe this is the time we should, I dunno, get the hell out of dodge?”

Castiel shot Dean a panicky look and looked back at where Azrael and Raphael were. For the moment, neither of his siblings were paying any attention to him or the humans. But something was different about this fight. It was like Azrael had finally gotten the reasoning he wanted for…something.

Bobby swore under his breath and grabbed Jodi’s other arm, tugging her away even as Sam did. The sheriff’s eyes were wide and fixed on Azrael and Raphael. Azrael who was staring down and his brother like a child pulling the wings of a fly. Raphael snarled something under his breath and hurtled Azrael away. The smaller archangel smashed into Jodi’s patrol car with a small explosion of glass and ruined metal.

Azrael was still, unnaturally so even as Raphael stood. Castiel pushed the group of humans behind him, fully prepared to shield them from whatever tender mercies Raphael would give them. Not that he’d be much of an obstacle. 

“You should run,” was all the angel could force out as Raphael strolled over to Azrael. Who was playing opossum, because the minute Raphael was in reach he launched himself up into motion. Again the two archangels blurred into motion this time there was a guttural phrase and Raphael was sent hurtling back into the impala.

And Baby, poor, poor Baby was treated to the same inhuman impact as Jodi’s patrol car. Azrael took an unsteady step away from where he’d been standing and rolled his shoulders. Raphael snarled out another phrase and Azrael stumbled back startled his inky black wings unfurling against his will.

“Figured out my little trick did you, Raphael? Looks like you improved it and made it grace safe, bravo.” He said because sure enough whatever whammy Azrael had treated Raphael to the last time they’d fought had been turned around on him. All three angels’ wings were visible, Castiel’s charred black ones flared in front the humans as if trying to shield them from whatever blow was coming next.

Azrael’s wings looked different. Instead of the clean glossy iridescent black wings he’d sported in the past, they looked dusty, as though there was a thin layer of dirt dulling the feathers. Raphael’s on the other hand were jewel bright and parrot green. If Azrael’s wings were massive Raphael’s were bigger, though they looked fragile, like recently healed broken bones did. 

“I’m going to repay you for your tender mercies last time we fought, Azrael,” Raphael intoned, lunging for Azrael with his own angel blade. There was a flurry of movement and the two archangels tumbled then everything went still. 

Castiel jerked and swore in enochian even as Azrael sat up straddling Raphael and started laughing. Raphael’s own blade had found his heart in the grappling and there was a look of confusion on his face. Azrael reached forward to grip the hilt and shoved the blade the rest of the way into his heart. Raphael arched, his eyes widening even as the remnants of his grace burst from his vessel and burnt through his wings, leaving great ash outlines of them on the ground. Azrael just kept laughing, a sort of startled and amazed laugh.

“I say ‘we’ should get the hell out of dodge, Cas, for fuck’s sake,” Dean muttered under his breath when the angel told them to run. He stood his ground unhappily, noting with some dismay that Sam hadn’t left either. “What’s wrong with you? Go!”

Sam hesitated, and Dean couldn’t have wanted more to wring his overgrown sasquatch neck than right then. “You’re not staying here, Dean. If Cas says—…”

“Cas can kiss my freckled ass if he thinks I’m gonna sit on the sidelines twice!” Dean barked back, though most of the bite in his words was drowned out by a sad, crunching and squealing noise at his left. He swivelled around just in time to see Azrael’s small form go flying against the hood of the Impala, and the size of his vessel apparently had little to do with mass because the car itself very nearly imploded in a pitiful whine of distorted metal and crashing glass. 

When the archangel rose again, there were freaking wings everywhere, and suddenly Dean couldn’t see anything because Castiel had decided it was more important to keep them from being burned to a crisp than to actually know what was happening. Which, Dean figured, wasn’t such a bad thing, because the sight of Azrael getting up from the crushed ruin of his baby early took Dean to the floor.

He heard Sammy’s voice somewhere behind him going, “Well, shit,” and since he couldn’t say much more than echo the sentiment, he decided to keep silent. Something twisted unhappily in his gut and went ‘well, there goes that last of anything nice you might have had, aren’t we surprised it lasted this long?’ which prompted him to do a quick headcount behind him in a sort of panicked, paranoid daze before turning back towards Cas.

The light exploded beyond the wide expanse of dark feathers in front of him just as he turned though, and it was bright white and lancing sharp, like staring straight into the sun. A startled gasp escaped him, mirrored by Sammy’s own hitched breath close by, and by the time he was raising a forearm to dim the worst of it, the light was gone and there was silence, strange and oppressive, for a few mad seconds. 

And then laughter, sounding definitely way past unhinged. 

There was no way to walk around the length of dark wing in front of them—Dean really had to start reevaluating his life, because this situation didn’t even seem strange to him anymore—seeing as how Castiel’s feathers reached nearly all the to where the light had seemed to come from, and there was no way in hell Dean was risking approaching just then. 

“Sammy, you okay?” he voiced as he stepped closer to Castiel.

“Fine. We’re good. Head’s ringing a bit.”

“Yeah, understatement.” Dean raised a hand gingerly and let it fall, barely touching, against the top of Castiel’s outstretched wing, sort of praying he wouldn’t startle the angel and get a faceful of feathers for this. “Cas?” And all the while, in the background, Dean could hear that sick laughter. His fingers tightened into Castiel’s wing.

Castiel jerked, Dean’s touch pulling him out of whatever stunned shock he’d been in because he quickly folded his wings and looked at Dean. Then his eyes were drawn back to Azreal, who was stumbling to his feet and still laughing. 

The archangel folded his wings and stared at the group of them for a moment. Castiel flared his wings instinctively, blocking the humans from view again. He needn’t have worried because there was a rush, another blur of limbs and a moment later he’d closed his wings again. Gabriel had finally caught up and he had a hold of Azrael.

The smaller archangel was pinned and clawing at Gabriel’s arm, struggling against the hand around his throat. There were no words exchanged but there was the impression of monumental ass reaming. Azrael’s feet scrambled against the ground as he tried to get away. Finally he gave an awkward flap of his wings and a buck that sent Gabriel stumbling back. 

Azrael scrambled to his feet and faced Gabriel; his wings flared out but it was all bluff. A moment later Azrael vanished and both angels left couldn’t hear where he’d gone. Gabriel frowned and looked as furious as he’d ever looked.

Dean stepped back a few steps as Castiel jerked under his hand; the wide expanse of dark feathers lowered, folding like some complicated machinery, and Sam was at his side in an instant, both of them surveying the road. Azrael was getting up, standing a bit unsteadily with a wild, unhinged look on his vessel’s sharp-boned face. When those too-wide eyes turned towards them, Castiel’s wing flapped back in a rush, snapping up and outwards with a loud slap of air.

“Whoa, Jesus. The hell’s going on?” Dean breathed, taking exactly one step forward before a hand wrapped around his arm stopped him. He shot a faint glare at his brother. “What gives, Sammy? Raphael’s gone—…”

“Look.”

And Dean did, finally able to see past the lowered mass of Castiel’s wings. Gabriel was here, and boy did he look pissed. Azrael was being held against the ground and he didn’t look one bit happy about it, trashing under Gabriel’s arguably small frame. It would’ve been slightly hilarious—both of the archangels were dwarfed by Sammy’s gigantic bulk and, to a lesser extent, Dean’s—if it hadn’t been at once somewhat terrifying. 

Because Raphael was still lying there in a crumpled heap, his vessel’s body looking altogether less impressive now, and the two huge shadows that had formed at her sides left no doubt at all that something infinitely more powerful than Dean was comfortable with had just died. Azrael had dealt the killing blow and he was now scrambling to get away from Gabriel, who suddenly seemed a hell of a lot more intimidating than Dean remembered.

He pointedly did not stare at the mess of his car.

Once Azrael was gone in a rush of air and blown leaves, the grip on Dean’s arm finally relaxed. He quirked an eyebrow at his brother, who only gave him a shrug in answer. But Sammy’s face spoke volumes; there was awe written there, plain as day, as Sam stared at Gabriel. Dean rolled his eyes, even though he was pretty certain he’d been slack-jawed himself just a few seconds ago.

“So, um… Is it just me or did that not seem like part of anyone’s plans just now?” he voiced into the awkward silence.

“That….was definitely not part of the plan,” Castiel said quietly, eyeing Gabriel warily. Gabriel was still frowning, his expressive face warring between consternation and outright fury. Castiel’s wings folded slightly against his back, the feathers clenched tightly in an unconscious display of nerves. 

Gabriel and Castiel exchanged one of those angelic talking-in-ways-humans-can’t-hear looks and Castiel looked at the ground, then back up at Gabriel. Who tilted his head and looked at the wrecked mess of the Impala then at Dean. The archangel shook his head and with a snap of his fingers, the wrecked mess of the car was restored back to pristine condition and Gabriel was gone as was Raphael’s corpse.

“…I get the feeling several someones just got ass reamed, whatever that was,” Jodi said, her voice tight and worried. 

“Something like that,” Bobby said, looking at Castiel who was still silent.

* * *

Meanwhile, in hell. Azrael was furious. How dare they? He’d been fighting to fix things for them and he was being blamed for the attack on Raphael. 

On great black wings he flew through hell, his voice uplifted in rage. Souls and Demons alike heard him. Without really thinking things through he called up a battalion of Demons and burnt through them to try and work out his temper. Then he called another and sent them out to target several angels on earth. Another thought had a pack of hellhounds on his heels, except he kept calling them until nearly a hundred of the beasts tangled around him. 

The Archangel held them for a moment before sending them baying after the Winchesters. Azrael tore apart a couple lesser fallen and still wasn’t over his anger. During all this he’d forgotten to cover his tracks in half a dozen ways, and drained enough of his impressive resources for Crowley or any number of powerful Demons to wriggle free of his grip.

* * *

The moment when Gabriel flicked his fingers and the Impala was returned, as though nothing had happened, to her usual gorgeous self was almost lost on Dean. It was a testament to just how rattled he was at seeing Gabriel's usually smug mug twisted into such a serious expression; he and Sam had both gotten an inkling of that holier-than-thou archangel attitude before. More than one, in fact, but seeing it now, wordless, angry and directed at Castiel, somehow seemed to put everything in perspective for Dean.

He'd thought getting rid of Raphael would be a good thing; clearly something had just gone right over his head, because his first impression had been that everyone should've been friggin' celebrating the fact that the bastard who'd been hanging over their collective heads like a fabled Damocles sword was now dead. This was obviously not the case.

Castiel--not Cas, not right now, not with the tight set of his jaw and that unfathomable, hard look to his eyes--definitely didn't look like someone who'd just had their public enemy number one wiped from existence.

And Sam, well... Sam still had that vaguely awed look to his face, and Dean should've been bothered by the fact that his little brother wasn't even freaking out about Gabriel apparently going near silent-smiting on Castiel's ass.

In short, Dean was panicking, because he had too little information and too many questions, and the clueless outsiders' view that Sheriff Mills provided only further aggravated him. He wished he could have affected the same detachment, but he knew the score, if he didn't quite understand the stakes; this wasn't, in any way, shape or form, routine to them. So he did the only thing he could do; he reached out for Castiel's forearm, gave him a slight squeeze and a confident smile he didn't feel and nodded towards his intact car.

"Thanks, Cas. Really." It was weak, as far as sentiments were concerned; but for once he almost wished Cas would sneak his way into his head and see that the car was only the very tip of what he was grateful for. There'd be time enough for questions later. And the nickname had fallen from his lips too easily, as though he didn't want to think of his Cas as that Castiel, the one who'd shown up all puffed and ruffled with heavenly intent, the one who'd, in the past, acted like a royal dick. 

He'd--perhaps foolishly--hoped they'd gotten past that.

"You guys okay?" Dean shot at Bobby, quite unaware that he was still holding onto Castiel's arm.

"I think maybe we should postpone this hunt," Sam butted in, stealing the words straight out of Dean's brain. "Any other hunters you can call, Bobby? I'd like to, like, get back to the keystones as soon as possible. I don't know what's going on, but I sure would like for somebody to fill me in. Gabriel said he was supposed to keep Azrael and Raphael from killing each other and--"

Dean rounded on his brother almost instantly. "-Gabriel- said what? When?"

The look he got fromSammy was almost sheepish. "He, uh... Found me in that motel in Maine. We had a talk, nothing bad, just... He explained things, Dean. You weren't exactly forthcoming with the information before."

"I... I think we're all due a long sit by the fireplace and an even longer talk. I can't tell my ass from my elbow right now, and I sure as hell would like to," Dean answered.

"Ditto."

Castiel blinked and looked over at Dean then let his eyes travel around the area warily. He focused on his wings for a moment and willed them away. “Think nothing of it, Dean,” he said quietly. Gabriel was furious, Azrael was missing and Raphael was dead. Raphael, who had been trying to kill him for ages and yet Castiel had never wanted Raphael dead.

The worst part of it all was that it had been luck that had finished things for Raphael rather than skill. Castiel was still worried about Dean and the others but mostly he was lost in the chaos that was the host. The death of an Archangel always knocked the host into a panic. Even as he stood next to the humans Castiel was in a dozen conversations, soothing worried angels within the host.

“Yeah, I can call someone else for this. Sorry about this all, Jodi, but we just got shoved into something bigger, I think,” Bobby said, sighing, looking over at the sheriff. “Sounds like it’s just a skinwalker anyway, nothing too far out there.”

“Its' fine, just send whoever you find to me and I’ll set them on the trail of this thing,” Jodi answered, eyeing Castiel for a moment then looking over at Bobby. “At some point you’ll have to tell me exactly what’s going on here in my town.”

“Whenever I get a moment I'll tell ya everything, Sheriff,” Bobby said with a gruff laugh as he shook Jodi’s hand. Castiel tilted his head and with a rush of air he vanished without another word. “Guess he’s off to try and find out what to do next.”

In reality Castiel had gone off to find Balthazar and try to help get the host calmed back down. He wasn’t in heaven long before Gabriel chased him right back out and down to earth. So the angel found himself waiting for the Winchesters and Bobby at Bobby’s house.

Dean nodded at Bobby, somewhat distracted by the aloof, stone-cold response he got from Cas. "Yeah, it's a nice story, you'll see," he directed at Jodi, an uncomfortable, cynical smile sneaking on his lips despite his better judgment. "Full of angels and dicks, and sugar and spice and everything definitely not nice." He was staring at the scuffled spot of dirt where Castiel had been standing and shook himself, finally allowing the state of his car to rise to the forefront of his mind.

A couple steps took him to the Impala, and Dean played a comforting hand up the sharp lines leading up the the driver's side door. "Christ, that was close," he muttered under his breath, and it wouldn't have been so frigging awkward that he was focusing on the car -now- if Sammy hadn't been staring at him with the most knowing look his brother could muster.

And Sam could muster a hell of a lot of looks, what with the extreme amount of face he possessed. 

"What?" Dean muttered defensively. "She was good for Bobby's yard not two minutes ago, gimme a break, man."

"I didn't say a word, Dean," Sam retorted. That smarmy look was still on his face, but there was worry hidden beneath it. It didn't escape Dean's notice, and he wheedled at his brother as he popped the door open, secretly pleased to find that Gabriel hadn't magicked away her slight whine and rusty creak when he'd put her back together.

"Got something you wanna share, Sammy?" he asked, hovering one foot inside the car.

"Not just yet. But yeah." Sam turned, shot Bobby a forced, cheerful smile and waved at Sheriff Mills. "We'll see back at your place? I'll call someone I know to take care of..." He gestured towards what was left of Jodi's car. "You know, if you want."

Dean swiftly followed once Sammy was in the car, sliding into the driver's seat with a stiff nod towards Bobby. They could leave the man here; God knew, Bobby deserved a break from all their shit, and who better to have a break with than Sheriff Mills? Though, clearly, that was as far as Dean was going to allow his brain to go, because some things were just too awkward to contemplate.

"So. Thoughts? I mean... For a second there, I figured we were due a victory barbecue. I mean, Big Bad Raphy gets smoked and nobody dances? What the hell, Sammy?" he mumbled as he drove off, negotiating around the ruin of Jodi's patrol car to get back on the road. 

"I don't know. I can say, though, that Gabriel didn't look pleased. I mean, neither did Cas, but..." Sammy shrugged, stretching his long body into the passenger's seat, and Dean spared a grateful thought for Gabriel's magic fingers. "As much as Raphael was an utter dick, he was still their brother. Or something. It's confusing. I think..."

Dean waited a few seconds, switching lanes and bypassing a truck. He quirked an eyebrow. "You think...?"

"I just think neither of them were expecting Azrael to go so far. I mean, Cas had his reasons to want Raphael out of the picture, we know that. Whatever Azrael did, Dean, I think it shocked them. Both of them."

There was an uncomfortable and weighty silence, until Dean flinched and reached down underneath his seat to fish out a random tape and stick it into the radio. "Well, that's not worrying -at all-," Dean snorted. The music went mostly unnoticed for most of the ride back, and that was a testament as to how worried both of them were; Dean didn't raise the volume on the Best Of Styx, and Sammy didn't even flinch. 

When they finally pulled into Bobby's yard Castiel was already there, standing like some five feet and something of disturbed and worried angelic stoic statue just near the stairs. Dean parked the car a few feet away and slid out. The doors reverberated strangely in the silence as he and Sammy got out of the car and made their way uncertainly towards Cas.

"So. Info. I think you owe us that much. What just happened back there?" Dean said, and Sammy shot him a look because the words came out not half as gruff as he'd intended them.

Bobby snorted and waved the boys off. He’d take care of things and get his tow truck out to take care of the ruined patrol car. He’d take a few moments talking with Jodi alone while the boys headed back to his place than leave himself. 

Castiel blinked and looked between the brothers then out over the junk yard. “Azrael killed Raphael. You saw it.” He said simply almost hoping they would accept that response. Because explaining it all would be painful. He would have liked to be in heaven trying to soothe everyone in the host.

Even now he could here all of his brother’s voices uplifted in a tremulous chorus of panic and lose. “Gabriel is unhappy about that fact.” He added resolutely looking anywhere but the Winchesters. He realized he was grinding his teeth and had to make a conscious effort to stop.

Surprise was still new to him, to everyone in the host. Even if Azrael and Raphael fighting had not been exactly normal, it had not been surprising not like Raphael’s death was. Another voice cut out of the host forever. It was a change that no angel would forget, just like every other death.

"But I thought, you know..." Dean started, and his forehead was crinkling in an honest frown as he tried to understand just why nobody was cheering the fact that Raphael, who had been trying his damnedest to off Castiel and both he and Sam for several months, was now dead and gone. For some reason, he caught on even before Sammy's elbow poked him in the ribs.

It might have been that look of uncertainty crossing Castiel's face, or the fact that he wasn't sure, if their situations had been reversed by some twisted trick of freaky fate, that he would've been able to stomach the thought of seeing his brother killed right in front of his eyes. He'd never seen it that way, of course; nearly all the angels they'd encountered so far had been monstrous dicks, practically worse than demons in their own, subtle way, except for Cas and, if he had to be honest, Gabriel.

Still, the elbow in the ribs was totally uncalled for and unneeded, and Dean shot his brother a dirty look which was mostly ignored. 

"Right," he said after a beat, turning to look out over the expanse of beat-up cars that was Bobby's yard. "Okay. So we left Bobby with Sheriff Mills and I think he'll find his own way back soon enough. I'm feeling stupid exposed out here, so how about we take this inside, huh?"

He managed a small, hopefully cheerful smile at Cas, and Sammy, for once, didn't argue. 

"Yeah, I'm thinking a tour of the wards on this place might be in order. Just to be on the safe side," Sam said as he wriggled his gangly self in between Dean and Cas and made his way inside. 

"You do that." Dean waited until Sam was safely gone, until the thud of his boots had disappeared inside the house, and moved a few stupidly hesitant steps towards Cas, and Jesus, when had he turned into such a girl about all this? A year ago, he would've been all up in Castiel's face about this angelic family ties bullshit. 

Apparently he no longer had the energy for that stuff. It was as good an excuse as any he could come up with, in any case.

"Cas. You gonna be okay? I mean, Raphael was a class-A douche, but I get... this," Dean said, waving a hand vaguely towards Cas. "I really do. And I'm not about to ask or go grand jury here, but I gotta say, I'm sort of relieved he isn't out for your blood anymore, you know?"

It was a shit speech, as far as speeches went, he knew. But it was the best he could manage right now, especially when Castiel looked so damned distant and he had no idea where he stood, aside from three feet away from Bobby's door with the painfully familiar wooden planks of the old hunter's porch under his boots. But Cas wasn't even here, was somewhere between reality and what he was starting to resent as 'that fucking shithole upstairs', where he couldn't, ever, follow.

It was selfish, he knew, to want his Cas back, especially now. But apparently Dean was a disgusting, selfish bastard, because it was all he could think about, especially here, where the memories of Bobby's shower and that spare room upstairs clashed so violently with the past, when he'd faced down an angel who'd threatened to send him reeling back down into the pit, when he'd been dragged back in after having his ass handed to him by 'divine judgement'. 

Castiel fixed Dean with a hard look. “The entire voice of the heavenly host just lost one of its archangels. One of my brothers, whose voice I have heard since the very instant of my creation just died. Every angel alive felt his death like it was their own. My entire family – because we are a family no matter how much you seem to forget that I have a family of my own- is in turmoil because of this and I am stuck here.” He growled in the same angel of the lord voice he seemed to revert to. “But I’m fine. Need me to fetch Bobby for you?”

He was furious mostly because he was stuck here with these stupid humans and unable to help his family. He jerked when he realized what he’d just thought. His expression went from hard to lost in an instant and with a rush of air he vanished.

He’d never thought of the Winchesters like that before. Like they where nothing but in convinces to him just like his brothers thought of them. It made him feel like he’d failed his father, the angels had been told to love humanity as God loved them, and he’d just thought of them like they where nothing. Clearly he was being just as affected by the loss as his brothers.

Strangely all he wanted was someone to hold him to indulge in that close contact. But did he deserve comfort after he’d thought of Sam and Dean like that?

Dean stepped back a few paces under the force of Castiel's words, eyes widening in shock and surprise; he hadn't expected this, hadn't expected this much simmering anger, most of all hadn't expected the edge of contempt to creep into Castiel's voice as it did now, until he felt like he was being examined and dismissed as insignificant. It stung, fiercely, mostly because because his first thought was that -he- hadn't ever gone after Cas with the intention of gleefully ripping out his guts.

What flickered in his brain right after was even worse, that he'd been so damned close to actually believing that Cas was one hundred percent on his side, that he'd stick by them no matter what happened, and that he was almost ready to admit that, yeah, he needed that like he needed air to breathe.

And whatever Raphael had been, Dean was pretty damn certain that 'class-A douche' hadn't been stretching it at all. Still, there was nothing now but that faint feeling that he was being regarded by some sort of -creature-, and the fact that it came from Cas, of all people, only made it that more awful. 

He knew there were words in there that he ought to be paying attention to, but the tone was just not something he could deal with after being thrown face-first into another freaking end-of-the-world deal he didn't understand and didn't want to care about. He completely missed the look of lost confusion on Castiel's face, because the second the angel stopped spitting his venom back at him Dean was moving forward.

The fact that Cas chose that moment to disappear instead of staying to hear what he had to say pretty much destroyed whatever reason Dean might've had left. "Well, fuck you too, Cas. Fuck you and your stupid pissing contests, and fuck your family and your goddamn daddy issues!" he howled into empty air, spinning round to slam a fisted hand straight into the banister of Bobby's porch.

The shock of it jolted as pressure up his arm, but it wasn't until he took a second to draw in a harsh breath through his nose that the pain hit him. And his heart was racing, beating in his chest like it was trying to escape, but the pain was -good-, in a sickeningly real way, good as he couldn't remember it being before, even before hell. It was grounding, and real and raw, not some half-assed, barely-felt heavenly crap, not some metaphysical shit that he couldn't understand.

It was human, and right now, it was bliss, even as he shook his hand forcefully to try and get some feeling back into it beyond the initial shock of throbbing ache.

Sam was there about three seconds later, thundering through the door to stare around the porch. His eyes focused on Dean's hand first, then his face, and Sam's look turned worried and angry. "What the hell just happened?"

"Nothing," Dean snarled back, stuffing his numb hand into his jacket pocket and shouldering his way past Sam. "Cas is just being his sunny, angelic ass self. I'll be in the damned panic room if you need me." His tone clearly implied that nothing short of a hurricane or another apocalypse would count as 'needing him' though, and he was almost glad when Sam didn't press him for further information.

Almost.

* * *

Castiel stayed away for nearly a full day before returning to Bobby’s place. He waited until Dean was alone before revealing himself. “Dean,” His voice was rough like he’d been screaming. “I owe you an apology.” 

He chewed his lower lip and was looking at the floor. He still felt like rubbish, like he’d called Dean and Sam mud-monkeys just like his brother’s did. He didn’t know if Dean would even let him talk but he had to try. Had to make things right somehow.

Dean would probably cast him out for what he’d said and how he’d said it. The host was still in turmoil and he had found himself alone and lost. So like a dog expecting a kick he’d come back to beg for forgiveness. He hoped he’d at least be allowed to stay so he wasn’t alone if nothing else. 

Dean had spent a mostly rotten day; Bobby's impromptu return had interrupted a near shouting match between him and Sam, which had arisen because Dean had been in a pissy mood to begin with and Sammy's sudden zen-like attitude to midget, blond archangels suddenly turning into a force of nature had grated on his nerves something fierce. The first few comments he'd thrown at Sam after his brother had joined him--despite Dean's own insistence that he be left alone--in the panic room had rebounded on that weird, too-calm wall of put-together Sam and he'd lost it.

They'd spent half an hour flinging insults at each other and rehashing old tripe they both knew they were over. 

It had ended with Sammy storming out of the panic room with a frustrated grunt of 'God, you're hopeless, Dean,' and Dean throwing the nearest available thing--a pillow from the cot, as it turned out--right out at Sam's ass to bounce harmlessly against the thick metal door.

He'd left the panic room only to take a piss in the downstairs bathroom, carefully navigating past the kitchen and ignoring whatever hushed conversation Sam was having with Bobby. And when he'd returned down to the basement he sat himself against one shelf and made it his life's work of dismantling every gun the panic room held, lining up all their respective parts in neat little rows, cleaning everything down with mechanical precision and slowly putting them back together, one after the other.

It was cathartic, and gave him time to think. 

It was also probably the only reason he didn't fly right back off into comfortable rage when he heard the unmistakable rustle of feathers. Castiel's voice, when it came, wasn't wholly unexpected; the tone was, though, but still Dean didn't raise his eyes from the Browning GP's barrel he was currently diligently cleaning. 

When he was done--and, really, the gun hadn't been used in months, it had hardly required the amount of care he put into making sure the barrel was smooth and unobstructed--Dean slowly put the gun down and looked up.

The sight of Castiel, standing there with a clear look of dread on his face, chewing at his bottom lip like it was a habit he'd always had instead of picked up from God knew where, hit Dean like an uppercut to the gut. "You're sorry, huh?" he forced out, noting how Cas wouldn't quite meet his eyes. "Way I see it, we've both been acting like dickwads. But, hey, only one of us here has been swallowing it down until it damn well near exploded, and that ain't me, Cas."

Dean pushed away from the shelf and turned away from Castiel, reassembling the pistol he'd been cleaning with swift, easy motions before setting the gun down to join its neighbours. The click as heavy, smooth metal met aged wood sounded too loud to his ears. He sighed. 

"'Cause, Goddamn it, this is friggin' Crowley all over again, man. You gotta -talk- to us, Cas. I may not be Oprah material and you might not get cookies and a back rub, but you can't just act like whatever the hell is happening out there affects only you. I don't -like- your... family. I can't pretend that I do, but, Jesus, I -know- what loss is and I know what it feels like when you think the rug just got pulled out from under your feet, but if you just play it like you pretend you don't give a shit, then I can't--... I mean, Sam and Bobby and me, we can't help you."

The words tumbled out of him, faster than he could control them and punctuated by several harsh thumps against the edge of the shelf he was leaning on, and when Dean turned around again he was half expecting Cas to have poofed away again.

Castiel shuffled his feet and glanced up at Dean. He licked his lips and sighed. “The death of any angel has always been distressing, for an archangel to die…multiples the distress. And…. And Azrael, had been told not to kill Raphael.” He said frowning in consternation. 

He shuffled uncertainly closer to Dean. He wasn’t sure how to explain why this wasn’t something that Azrael should not have been able to do. He would of course try if Dean asked but explaining the not following orders just wasn’t something Angel should be able to do.

He knew Dean was still upset with him and he was willing to try and explain and to make things right. But only if Dean would let him explain. Which was not always the case with Dean but he was still hopeful that Dean would listen for a change.

"I get that, Cas. I mean... I do," Dean answered, turning away because he could -not- meet Castiel's face just then, not when that uncertain look toed the line so freakishly well with memories of a really shitty future he really didn't want to think about right now. The floor offered little in the way of distraction. "But you'll have to forgive me if I'm relieved that your bro, who was, by the way, apparently trying to blast you, and all of us, to bits, is dead."

He took a deep, calming breath, which did nothing at all to settle him. "Anyone goes after you, Cas? He's on my Most Wanted list by now. And unless you can offer a better option, then I guess this is it. It sucks, and I guess it makes the witch angel a sort of wild card right now, but this?" Dean gestured awkwardly between himself and Cas and nodded his head once, towards the ceiling and upstairs, where he knew Sam and Bobby were still safe and sound and, thank God, alive. "This, I can't be sad about. Raphael has been after you for months, man... I don't..."

Dean paused, the words 'I don't understand' hanging heavy and unsaid. Because he did, in a strange way, understand. He remembered the strange song Castiel had shared, how every single voice had seemed somehow part of a whole, and yeah, it was fucked up, and way beyond what he knew and recognized as 'family', but Dean could understand the concept of it as though it'd been seared into his brain. 

You just didn't leave family hanging, no matter how much of a dick they turned out to be. "I'm sorry, Cas." He essayed a small, tired little smile. "I'm not like you. I'll never be like you, you know that. You're, like, half a million years old or something and I think I'm allowed a free pass on human stupidity. So again, if you don't open your sweet friggin' mouth and -talk-, I can't guess what's happening in that angelic head of yours."

He leaned back, settled his hips against the edges of the shelf and glanced up at the ceiling; nothing but a slowly turning fan and diffused moonlight reached his eyes. It wasn't nearly half as comforting as he could've wished the scenery to be. Dean sighed. "You've... shared stuff before, Cas. You might think I don't get it, and you're wrong. I do get it. But I can't reach for that, you know? Sammy's the one who believes in all of this. I guess I only see what's there to see. So tell me."

Castiel sighed and allowed himself to lean against the wall of panic room. “Angels aren’t supposed to be able to disobey and order like that…it’s not supposed to be possible.” He licked his lips and looked a bit lost. “That was more disturbing than Raphael’s death honestly.”

Flexing his fingers he took a deep breath. “You’ve heard the host, Dean. I showed you that, the host will never sound the same even if for some reason Raphael is brought back it’ll be different. Change is not something the host takes well. It’s still in turmoil even now.” He glanced upwards. 

“Such distress is difficult to deal with. I should not have been so irritated about being here with you and Sam instead of helping in the host.” He shrugged slightly. “For a moment I saw you in an unfavorable light that I have never before contemplated…I need to apologize for that.”

Somehow, despite everything else that was wrong, and despite how utterly -other- Castiel's words classed him as, Dean found himself relaxing as Cas seemed to work himself up further. The stance was all wrong, too tight and too stiff, the trench coat sitting on the angel's shoulders as though it really didn't belong there. Cas inclined his head upwards and that was also wrong--too precise, too controlled--but all of it matched up perfectly with previous memories of Cas standing there all angeled-up and untouchable. 

Dean now knew it was a lie, so maybe that coloured his view of things somewhat; doubtless Sam wouldn't have chuckled right now, which Dean did, and it was somewhat of a relief to do so.

"Mud-monkeys, am I right?" he mumbled, lips still curled in a slight smile. "Hey, I get it, Cas. From anyone else? I would've busted their angelic balls black and blue. But you're still here, and you're talking, so... Maybe you're not as much of a tightass as you seem to think you are."

It was difficult, to push away completely from the shelf and the wall and walk towards Cas; he was never as alien as when he was still, when that sense of something too ancient for Dean to grasp seemed to settle around the angel like so much dust. But for all of that wide gap, once Dean finally managed to get within touching distance, it was stupidly easy to reach out and clap a hand onto the angel's shoulder and squeeze.

"Just don't... lose this, okay? You say disobeying is difficult? Man, -living- is hard, that's the way it goes. That's free will for you; it bites you in the ass more often than not. Maybe Azrael figured that out, maybe he didn't. God knows he probably won't answer if we ask him," Dean said, and the thought rose unbidden that -Cas- was the one here right now, answering questions Dean had no idea how to voice. 

"And maybe disobeying is what makes you all tick. Maybe, I don't know, maybe Big Daddy upstairs made the switch wrong, or he worked in a trick or two. Maybe I'm just being a hopeful friggin' romantic, Cas, but this isn't the sort of thing we can afford to be thinking about when--"

Dean had had no idea where he was going with that particular little speech, so it was almost a relief when he was interrupted by the sound of loud shuffling from upstairs and the sight of the panic room's door rocking slightly on its hinges. For a second he thought he almost smelled sulphur, the memory of it pulling deep and sharp at his senses, reaching down into his gut via his noise and drawing an ugly and strangled sound from his throat.

He whipped around, located the array of reassembled guns and a couple cases of rocksalt shells before turning back towards Cas, eyes widened in something close to fear. 

"Think we got company."

Castiel found himself smiling slightly at Dean as Dean grasped his shoulder. “Free will…is difficult, Dean. But I am trying,” he murmured, completely ready to lean forward against Dean. Free will was hard, not simply going back into the same rhythm he’d been in before was hard.

He would have reached out to pull Dean closer, but every single one of his senses made him aware they were not alone. The angel jerked around to stare at the door. The beast couldn’t get into the panic room but it wasn’t alone. “We do,” he said, looking at Dean.

“A moment.” There was a rush of air and the angel vanished upstairs to grab a hold of Bobby and Sam and bring them down into the safety of the panic room. “There’s at least a dozen hellhounds in the house,” he said, looking out of the door and frowning. “If not more.”

Castiel’s senses were screaming in alarm about hounds stalking around the house. “They were sent.”

"Fuck," Dean gritted out in a heartfelt exhale, eyes scanning the now empty panic room. For the few brief moments when Cas was gone, Dean rustled through the salt rounds and the guns, matching up a few weapons with their respective clips and shells. He was ready when the expected thump of a wing beat sounded behind him, turning around to fling a sawed-off at Bobby. Sam was standing there a bit stupidly, iron poker in hand and raised above his head, eyes widened almost comically.

"Nice timing?" Dean asked, waiting until Sammy had dropped the poker to push another shotgun into his brother's hands.

Sam nodded, shooting Cas a grateful look. "You can say that again. Thank, Cas." 

A few seconds served for Sam to catch his breath, and Dean's eyes darted nervously to the open door more than once. It was now rocking slightly on its heavy hinges, and he was more than uncomfortable with the knowledge that the only thing keeping the hounds at bay was the heavy iron of the room itself; he'd have felt a lot more comfortable seeing that door closed, especially when the baying and howling rose up around them.

Dean shivered, barely aware that Sam was talking.

"--so we tried to come down here, but one of them had already taken the stairs. I guess now we know the sigils we painted all over the place don't work on hellhounds."

If Sammy had noticed anything off about Castiel earlier on the porch, he certainly wasn't showing it now, as he'd turned and deferred pretty much immediately to the angel, including him in their plight probably by instinct. 

"Cas said they were sent, Sammy. I think it's safe to assume that even if we run now, they'll just follow whoever it is they're after."

Castiel was frowning as the door. He knew at least one of those hounds, it was the one that Crowley treated like a lap dog and seemed too fond of refuse to risk it. But these hounds tumbled over each other like a hunting pack held at bay, baying and howling in impotent fury. 

On top of all that more kept pouring into the area, they crowded the basement and the rest of the house impossibly numerous for the space. They even snapped at each other when crowded to close. It was disturbing; hellhound packs where not normally over a hundred in strength. “Close your eyes.” He finally growled out reaching a hand out before him.

Hellhounds where not technically demons, they where one part naturally occurring creature and one part demonic construct, so angelic grace burned right through them. And burn through them Castiel did reaching with his grace to purify the house and kill the hounds. The close proximity of most of the keystones made the effort more taxing than he expected however.

Once the burning bright flash of light dimmed Castiel wobbled on unsteady legs and found himself leaning heavily against the wall of the panic room. “They’re dead.” He said breathing heavily and trying to hide how week he suddenly felt. He wanted to know who and what sent so many hounds against them. There was a half familiar feeling nagging at him from this all but he couldn’t place it. It wasn’t something Crowley would do though. Crowley wouldn’t risk his favorite pets on this.

It took a few moments of tense silence and a couple exchanged looks between the brothers to realize that Castiel wasn't actually paying attention; the angel was staring fixedly at the opened door, forehead wrinkled in a disturbed and worried frown. He completely ignored Sam's words and raised a hand outward. 

Dean exchanged a look with his brother and Bobby when the order left Castiel's mouth, and he had about a second to be bewildered at himself for the way a sort of anxious, fluttery twinge of desire coiled low in his gut at the tone and pitch of the angel's voice. The distraction lasted only a moment, though, and if he'd hesitated a second longer his stupid libido might have gotten him in serious trouble; the white flash that flared behind his eyelids was nothing short of explosive.

It was silent, too, the way no release of energy had any right to be, and in its wake Dean could hear a disgusting chorus of yipping and baying, hounds probably dying left and right and all over the damn house. It was horrible, and lasted way longer than Dean was comfortable with. He tried to keep count of the bitten-off and gurgling animal screeches but lost count sometime after the first ten or twelve.

"Jesus," Sam's voice came from his left, just before the light faded and the howls died down.

Dean gave it a few seconds more, and when Castiel spoke again his eyes were snapping open and he was stumbling back up on his feet--he hadn't even been aware that he'd fallen to his knees while trying to shut out the noise of the dying hounds--to dart at Castiel's side. The angel was leaning heavily against the wall for support and Dean snapped a hand out and grabbed for Cas' elbow, propping him up solidly by more or less leaning against his side.

"Hey. Easy there, Terminator," Dean grunted, shooting Castiel a slightly panicky grin. He turned towards the doorway; it still looked as empty as it ever had. Dean fought back a shiver.

"This isn't good. I mean, did you hear how many there were?" Sam breathed, leaning against the couch. He flinched and shot Dean a somewhat peevish look. "Uh, sorry."

"Yeah. Yeah, trust me, I heard." Dean really hadn't needed to be reminded. "I don't get it," he continued, firmly ignoring Sam's saddened frown, "We haven't pissed anyone downstairs off recently, have we? I mean, Crowley's always a bit pissed but this..."

"Doesn't seem his style?" Sam suggested.

"Yeah. He's always struck me as more the gloating sort than the send-an-army-of-hounds-from-afar sort. Probably more fun that way."

A short pause. "It's really disturbing to know you can psych-analyse the King of Hell, Dean," his brother finally said, and Sam must still have been a bit pissed about their previous spats, because Dean could swear there was almost no hint of teasing in his brother's voice. 

"It's a knack," Dean mumbled back, humourless, before turning back to Castiel. "You okay, man?"

Castiel allowed himself to lean against Dean and sighed.”There were well over a hundred of them.” He murmured wearily. It’d taken more out of him than he’d expected to kill the hell hounds. He closed his eyes for a moment and listened into the host.

“I don’t think it was Crowley that sent them…his favorite hellhound was among the pack. I doubt he would have risked it like this.” He carefully pulled away from Dean and looked around. “I’ll go make some inquires about this. Something is very off…” He looked around the panic room and gave Dean’s shoulder a squeeze before with a rush of air vanishing.

Bobby shook his head. “Something tells me things are about to get very messy, boys.” The old hunter said looking out at the empty basement. “You two should head out and get those last stones double time. Before whoever sent those things after us figures out they missed.”

"I think 'very off' is a bit of an understatement," Dean breathed in the wake of Castiel's leaving. He sighed, rubbed his shoulder thoughtfully--there was still a trace of warmth there, as though Cas' fingers still lingered, and fuck if it wasn't distracting and weird--and shared a look of quiet apprehension with Sam. "A hundred hell hounds? Does that even make sense to you?"

Sam just shook his head and put the shotgun back on the shelf where Dean had snagged it up from. "Not in the least. Pretty sure nobody ever sent more than a few after us. Even when... Well, you know," he answered, trailing off uncertainly, and Dean didn't need to hear the rest of it to remember. There'd been probably over half a dozen hell hounds after them when they'd gotten cornered over in Carthage. 

It wasn't something he particularly wanted to think about right now. 

Happily, Bobby provided him with the perfect out. "Stones, right. I don't even know why we're still chasing the damn things. Now that Raphael's out of the picture, is there even any rush to get 'em back? I thought he was the numero uno in the whole 'let's get this show back on the road' apocalypse fan club?" Dean said as he pushed away from the wall. 

"Cas always said Raphael had an army behind him. Civil war, remember? Who's to say with him out of the picture..."

Dean huffed out a tired breath. "Yeah, yeah, I get it. There's always another dick hiding behind the one you just--" He frowned, re-examined the sentence he'd been stumbling through and coughed. "You know what, really bad metaphor. But if we're heading out this soon after getting back, I'm taking a damn shower."

As it turned out, they both took showers, and ate and slept fitfully, snatching a few hours' worth of shut-eye before they finally departed, bleary-eyed and flying blind, before the sun was even up. Dean wrestled himself behind the wheel and Sam more or less squeezed his long limbs into the passenger's seat and they were off before Dean had even managed to take a single sip of his coffee.

It sat now, untouched and probably cooling, as they drove east towards the coast, following the silent trail of the stone disc that had started all of this. Dean flicked on the radio and attempted a sip of his now lukewarm coffee. He almost spat it right back out when horrid, upbeat, teenybopper pop music started playing and shot Sam a dirty look as his brother snickered quietly. 

"Oh, can it. I swear your mp3 player tainted her."

"Or Gabe messed with the radio dial," Sam quipped back, still smiling faintly.

Dean shivered and swiftly changed channels. "God, that's a messed up thought, right there. And, really, 'Gabe'?"

He only got a shrug for his trouble and Dean cranked up the volume once he'd found something suitably less disturbing. It was going to be a long drive to Dover.

There was a rustle of air and rather than Azrael blinked into existence seated neatly in Sam’s lap. His vessels legs crossed and out the window. The archangel was still in the whine pinstriped suit, copper colored hair slicked back. “Hello boys.” He purred around an electric green sucker.

He leaned back on one hand and peered at Dean upside down. “Just what exactly do you think you’re doing with my little brother, Dean?” He asked giving the elder Winchester a hard look twirling the sucker between his lips. 

The fact he was seated in Sam’s lap seemed to have completely escaped the archangel. But he did fix Dean with a bright, blue-eyed stare. If nothing else he was going to enjoy messing with Dean’s mind over this. With the angel the faintest hint of brimstone and ozone had wafted into the car, like it had followed the archangel here.

They'd been driving down the interstate in complete, awkward silence--Dean wasn't sure he trusted the radio anymore, and silence suited his surly, worried mood--for about ten minutes when Sammy uttered a nervous, surprised squawk in the passenger's seat. Dean turned his head and found himself staring directly into Azrael's upside down face, inches from his own. 

The car veered massively as Dean jumped and he cursed, hands flying over the steering to get his baby back in their own lane. "What the fuck? Can't you people just call?" he hissed. Dean shot Azrael a nasty look and quickly turned away. "And I'm not doing anything with your 'little brother'," he continued, while Sam squirmed uncomfortably in his own seat. The mortified and pleading look his brother shot might almost have been this funny if not for the recent memory of the archangel actually cackling over Raphael's corpse.

Dean glanced over again and fought the impulse to shove the wheel hard towards the right and drive inches from the edge of the road as they passed an interstate marker, just to see which, out of archangel legs in fancy suits and steel rods, was made of sterner stuff. He gritted his teeth and nodded over his shoulder at the backseat instead.

"This car can accommodate people in the back, you know. It's not like we don't already have the mother of all police records, here; why not ride on the damned hood while you're at it, just to make sure we really draw attention to ourselves?" he growled.

Sam hissed out a breathy, "Dean," in warning, but he ignored it. Dean wasn't sure when the hell the entire damned heavenly host had decided that whatever the hell he had with Cas was the angelic version of reality TV, but he sure as hell didn't appreciate it. For all he knew, Cas had been broadcasting every single exploded lightbulb since this madness had all started. 

And Azrael made him nervous as hell. Angels came in many flavors, he was starting to learn; there were the stoic dicks who sneered down at them, the completely batshit insane ones like Gabriel and Balthazar who acted more like crazy teenagers or bad Hugh Hefner clones, obviously there was at least one who was a hopeless geek, but Azrael? Dean couldn't figure him out, and that was annoying.

He caught a whiff of something he knew couldn't possibly be coming from the rolled-down windows and outside, and his fingers tightened perceptibly on the steering wheel. It wasn't overpowering, but it was certainly unforgettable, and Dean made a mental note of it, thinking it strange that an archangel should reek of demons and hell.

"So," he finally added with a derisive snort. "What sort of call is this, then? Booty, duty or all business as usual? And how the hell'd you find us, anyway?"

Azrael frowned and twisted in an entirely unnatural manner so he somehow flipped to straddle Dean’s lap and wrapped a single slender hand around his throat and squeezed. “You don’t get it do you, ape?” He growled wrapping his grace around the car to keep it from veering.

“Angels exist to obey orders. You foolish creature, and long ago Castiel was ordered to obey you, to make sure he kept you happy.” He hissed into Dean’s ear. “Why do you think he fell for you, disobeyed because of you, bends over backwards and sideways to protect you, lets you fuck him like a whore? All because Michael ordered him to listen to you to obey you, just as he obeyed God.”

“He’s allowed you taint and violate his very being, just because that’s what you want. And he is obligated to obey you because that’s what he was ordered to do. Everything Castiel has done and become is because you, you filthy hairless ape, and you don’t even understand that you’re killing him slowly.” Azrael’s grip around Dean’s throat tightened and his eyes narrowed. “If it wouldn’t cause utter chaos in the host I would eviscerate you both. But instead I’ll just let you think about what you’re doing. Castiel is after all your friend is he not?”

The archangel tilted his head and stared into Dean’s eyes for long moment than he vanished in a rush of air and that acrid scent of brimstone and ozone wafting in his wake.

When the hand around his throat finally loosened and he felt the Impala swerve dangerously on the road, Dean pulled the car into a quick and very graceless stop along the curb, accompanied by screeching tires from the car that had been following them and a long, very loud blare of horn as the car bypassed the Impala. It came to rest a few feet from the road, in the dirt and dust just at the edge of a very sparse-looking wood. 

He didn't even wait until the dust settled before getting out of the car, Azrael's words replaying themselves over and over in his mind like some bad, broken record that he couldn't stop. He slapped a hand on the hood of the car, barely even aware that Sam was also getting out and was now staring, wide-eyed and confused and just a tad embarrassed, at him. 

It wasn't like that, Dean was sure; it had never been like that. Castiel was a sneaky little bastard, he'd seen the doubt and the twisted regret when the angel had rebelled. It couldn't possibly be all about orders, not from the first, because that was unacceptable. It was wrong and twisted and suffocating, and if it was true, then it pretty much meant that Dean had not only all but committed some disgusting brand of Heaven-approved rape on several occasions, but that he'd also imagined a hell of a lot of things in Castiel's eyes that probably hadn't really been there at all.

It took quite a long moment before he realized he was panicking and that Sam was freaking out, standing now awkwardly at his side, looking unsure and so, so small.

"You okay, Dean?" Sam asked after a long beat.

Dean shook his head; all he could see what that moment in Arizona when he'd been drunk off his ass and pushed too hard and Castiel had fled. He hadn't cared, hadn't even really contemplated just asking or even simply talking about it, because his damned stupid pride wouldn't allow it. He'd waited though, of course he had, and when the opportunity had presented itself again, hell, he'd jumped that fence, no questions asked.

He'd even taken Cas to a goddamn brothel, months and months before, and damn him, but he should've realized right then that Cas had only followed him into the place because he'd asked him to.

And he'd laughed. Found it funny, even, how easy it had been to fluster the angel, had revelled in taking him down a few notches.

"I'm really not okay. Bitch almost trashed my damn car," Dean muttered as Sam shifted behind him.

It was a sad, poor attempt at changing the subject, and they both knew it. Not for the first time he really wished Sam would just drop it. 

"So, I guess... For a while there, I thought I was kind of imagining this thing with you and Cas, you know? 'Cause of all the jokes and... But I guess not, huh?" 

No such luck, of course. A muscle twitched in Dean's jaw and he gritted his teeth angrily. He'd done a lot of really shitty things, downstairs, and then a lot more when he came back; but at least he'd never pretended it was anything other than what it really was. He'd never pretended he was doing something right when he put the knife to flesh, when he stuffed Alastair full of salt and holy water, when he killed pre-emptively to keep himself and Sammy safe.

This, though? This hadn't sprung from that dark part of him that he desperately tried to deny existed. This was all on him, and he still hadn't even thought he might really be in the wrong, not with Cas, not when it had felt so fucking right. This had all been him, and he'd still managed to destroy everything. 

Cas, after all, hadn't ever really said 'no'. But he'd never said he'd wanted any of it, either; he'd said 'yes' only as far as his vessel had, he'd done exactly as Dean had instructed him and he'd let Dean more or less manhandle him any way he pleased without so much as reminding him just who could crush who with a single thought. It had been voluntary, not forced, but Castiel sure as hell hadn't ever initiated any of it, and Dean wasn't sure, now, how much of the angel's responses could have been simply a direct result of Dean asking, pressing, wanting more.

His hand came up in a violent arc and shattered the window of the driver's side door of the Impala before Dean was even aware he was moving. The glass exploded against his knuckles, raining bits of glittery sharp dust everywhere, both outside and inside the car. He swore, a string of meaningless syllables, and Sam winced.

"I think I really fucked up, Sammy."


	18. Too Close

Castiel’s inquires had come up with nothing. No reason for anyone to send hellhounds after the Winchesters. He hadn’t been able to get a hold of Dean for days. So finally he went through Bobby to find him.

Something was wrong. He could tell from the way Sam looked at him, and Bobby’s gruff answers to where Dean was. It still took him longer than he liked to find Dean. There was a rustle of air and Castiel appeared in the somewhat grimy hotel room. “Dean, why have you been avoiding me?” 

Had he done something wrong? Somehow upset Dean by his distance or his simply leaving? Not checked in to let him know he was alive. He had briefly sensed Azrael was overly please about something a few days before. But other than that he’d been distracted by trying to find out what was going on.

Dean had fled--he hated to think of it as fleeing, but that was really all he could call it--Bobby's place almost as soon as they'd gotten back. There'd been words exchanged, shouted out in Bobby's yards, with Sam, and it hadn't been pretty. It had been angry and hurt and Sammy had tried his best to convince him that Azrael may not have been telling the whole truth, but Dean hadn't listened.

Because as much as he remembered things feeling right in the past, he couldn't deny that some of the words that smarmy archangel had said had rung true. And once the idea had wormed itself into his brain, it was almost like he couldn't get it out again, couldn't escape it. He kept finding hints, memories, bits and pieces falling into places to complete a puzzle that didn't paint a nice picture.

If he reached back far enough, he could even admit that he'd always, from the first, expected Castiel to follow him blindly. And he'd gotten mad when that devotion had been shaken, when Cas had turned away from him those few times; he'd shouted and demanded and insisted and, ultimately, Castiel had followed. In the green room, with the whole deal with Crowley, Fort Totten. Even the memory of what they'd done, drunk on anger and betrayal, over the Impala's hood, suddenly seemed bitter and wrong, twisted in a new light that reminded him, sharply, that Cas could have pushed him away at any time and had, for some reason, chosen not to.

Dean could now guess what that reason, and he didn't like it one bit.

So he'd left; he'd taken the Impala and simply driven off, thirty miles north until he'd found a motel he'd never seen before, a place clean of any reminders, even if his damned car wasn't itself exactly a help in trying not to remember just what he'd probably done to the one angel who he'd thought gave a damn about Dean's hide.

It was three days before Cas actually found him, and the angel materialized in the darkened motel room at about the same time as Dean's phone buzzed in his pocket to signal an incoming message. He ignored both for as long as he could, slumped in a lumpy couch and staring fixedly at the muted TV set.

"Never gonna get the hang of knocking, are you?" Dean mused, still stubbornly staring at the TV as though it could negate the possibility of having this conversation. "I haven't been avoiding you. I'm sure you got lots of stuff to do upstairs, is all," he eventually added, looking at anywhere but Cas, because if he met those eyes now it was all liable to happen again, and Dean wasn't sure he could stomach the thought.

Castiel frowned and took a step closer to Dean. He looked around the room for some sign of what was wrong and found no answers. So instead he stepped in front of Dean and crouched down so he was at Dean’s eye level. “Dean what happened?” He asked reaching out to touch Dean’s face hesitantly.

What had happened while he was gone? He didn’t want to read Dean’s mind but he was so very tempted to take a peek into it just so he knew why Dean was so troubled. “I’ve tried to call you a couple times, Dean. I was worried about you when I couldn’t get in contact.” He added frowning more and cupping Dean’s cheek hesitantly. 

The urge to beg Dean to tell him if he’d done something wrong was strong, the urge to make whatever he’d done up to him stronger. He had to see if Dean would answer him first. Then he’d do what he could to fix things. Dean was something important to him, more than just a charge he’d been given, or a friend he cared for. Dean was unique and special in so many ways, and Castiel cherished that.

Castiel--stubborn, clueless angel that he was--apparently didn't get the memo that a gruff rebuke and purposefully staring away should mean to leave Dean the hell alone and find something else to bother himself with, because he actually stepped closer. Sammy had got the hang of this by now, knew exactly when to drop a conversation and when to press, knew when to back off before Dean's temper got the better of him.

It was probably why they worked so well together, Dean mused. It was probably also why, when the shit hit the fan as it so often did these days, it always took such a damned long time for either of them to get their heads out of their asses and talk it out.

He almost cursed as Castiel's hand came up to his face, and he would've flinched if the touch hadn't lingered there and turned into something just shy of way too private, way too intimate. 

It burned, flared like a sort of pain that had nothing at all to do with palm against cheek and a whole lot to do with how Dean's chest constricted tightly. He wasn't even sure what was real anymore, and the fact that this still, somehow, didn't feel wrong had him reaching for Castiel's wrist with a speed that would have made him proud if he could pull off these kinds of moves when he was out hunting. 

"Your bro popped downstairs for a visit, Cas," Dean hissed, fingers curled tight around Castiel's wrist. He pushed until the hand cupping his face wasn't touching him anymore but didn't remove his hand, didn't stand, didn't do anything except glare at the angel. "And now I'm wondering why I'm not a friggin' pile of ash on the floor. 'Cause Azrael had a few choice things to say about what makes you guys tick. And orders, apparently. Any of this ringing any bells, Cas?"

Lies. Lies and omitting truths, and covering up what was real and what wasn't, and fuck but Dean was sick and tired of being led around like a blind bat. 

"Is it true?" he grunted, trying to speak past a knot in his throat, a sharp sting of betrayal and guilt and horror. "Tell me you haven't been letting me... Jesus, this is fucked up. Cas, tell me you haven't been doing all this just because some winged dick upstairs told you to listen to me?" The knot broke as Dean's voice rose, and he sounded pissed and angry when all he wanted was answers.

And all of a sudden he realized he was still crushing Castiel's wrist in an iron grip--probably not hurting him, but so not the point right now--and that Cas was more or less kneeling at his feet and a surge of sickened wrong twisted so powerfully in his gut that he dropped Castiel's hand and just stared, wide-eyed and disgusted with himself. 

"I can't..."

He choked on the words, the apologies lodging in his throat, and shuffled back, twisting on the couch and wrangling himself up onto his feet. He couldn't meet Castiel's eyes, not now, so he searched the room and briefly stared at the door, wishing he could just get the hell out of there and not have to face what he'd done. 

“Azrael had a few choice words about…?” Castiel asked not understand at first. Finally he just looked into Dean’s mind to see what exactly Dean meant then he jerked and frowned. “You think I’ve been sleeping with you because I have issues with telling you no at times?” 

“You foolish, foolish man.” He was angry and some of that irritation crept into his voice as he reached out to cup Dean’s face in his hands. “Angels were not made with free will. This is true. We also were not made with emotions or a sense of morality, Dean. I’m still learning how to decipher one emotion from another, and sometimes I listen to what you say because while I know one way is the more logical choice, for some reason it’s so morally reprehensible it would destroy whatever it is we have between us.” 

The angel rose up enough to press his forehead to Dean’s and pretty much force eye contact that way. “But that does not mean I don’t want this, don’t want you.” He sighed and tried to find the words for what he wanted to say. “There are times when I am unsure how to proceed, what sort of contact is appropriate socially, so I wait for some sign on what to do. I do this a lot when it comes to…us.” Castiel swallowed and brushed his thumbs over Dean’s cheeks.

“I follow your lead because if I touched you half as much as I wanted I would never stop touching you. You’re like an addiction, you make me feel things I have never contemplated before. You’ve never forced me to do anything, Dean. Infuriated and confused me more times than I can count, but never ever have I done anything for you or with you that I did not truly want to do.” He sighed and closed his eyes leaning a bit more against Dean. “You fascinate me, Dean Winchester, and you frustrate me, and I enjoy every minute of it.”

Dean almost shuffled back--instinct, automatic, as this was one conversation he really didn't want to have--when Castiel followed him and hands reached for his face. The motion, one foot dragging backwards, was aborted almost as soon as Cas started speaking. And Dean just stood there, staring numbly as more words poured out of the angel's mouth than he was pretty sure he'd ever heard before. 

It was uncomfortable and weird, and, like many things about Cas, somehow too open, as though Cas had never really understood the finer points of subtlety and was simply reacting, throwing stuff out there in the breadth of space between them that Dean wasn't sure he'd ever really be able to comprehend. As though Cas couldn't really be anything but completely honest when it counted, and Dean wondered how the hell he hadn't seen the closed-off face and vague answers that Cas had fed him in the few instances where he hadn't been entirely truthful.

Because this was one-hundred percent not bullshit, and the force of it left Dean a bit dazed and breathless even as Castiel seemed to sag under the weight of it. One of Dean's hands snaked upwards to fist itself tightly in the angel's jacket and pull until the firm warmth of Castiel's shape settled against him. He nodded, shaken, and settled both hands in the small of Castiel's back, like a reassurance that, yeah, he could have this.

"Okay... Okay, good, I... Okay," he repeated, a bit dismayed when Castiel closed his eyes and he lost that strange, buzzing thrum he usually found in the angel's gaze. "Guess I should be grateful about the whole 'appropriate social contact' thing." A thin laugh bubbled out of him, more nervous relief than anything else. 

Because Dean had done a lot of shit in his life, and a hell of lot worse things during his trip down in the pit, but he'd never been dumb enough, or selfish enough, to find himself in a situation where he'd forced himself on another. And it was a small nuance, in the grand scheme of things and on the list of horrific bullshit he'd done, but dammit, he held onto it as tightly as he could now. And he'd never have forgiven himself if he'd sprung that on Castiel, angel, friend, or whatever the hell else Dean could now call him.

"I should've known Azrael was full of shit," he growled. "I'm... sorry, Cas. I sort of panicked a bit, there. Think both you and Sammy've been ringing my phone non-stop for the past few days but I... God, I was freaking out." Castiel's hands were still resting against the sides of his face, warm and strangely soft despite the steel-strength Dean knew was pulsing under that skin.

He tilted his head to the side, pressing his face in a sort of teasing nuzzle against Castiel's palm before bumping foreheads with the angel. "So, hey. Fascinate you, huh? That's a good word. And there's abso-fucking-lutely nothing wrong with more touching. Just so we're clear. You know, of the appropriate sort." Dean managed a faint grin, teasing and soft, and nudged at Castiel's nose with his own. Of course, by then he was a bit quietly mortified at how absurdly and supremely sugary-sweet this all was, so he couldn't help but continue. 

"Or, hell, even the inappropriate kind. Whatever you like, really. Just as long as we don't end up flashing anyone in public," he added, hands twitching at Castiel's hips with a sudden urge to move lower. And, freaking hell, there it was, that sense that this was too easy, too simple, too right for it to be real; thirty minutes ago he'd sworn to himself he'd never again let his wandering hands and stupid, brainless dick to the thinking for him anymore when it came to Cas. Now, of course, all that had gone flying right out the window.

“Azrael….Azrael lies. More often than I find comfortable. More often than not he lies by twisting the truth around.” Castiel said with a sigh opening his eyes to watch Dean closely. “It’s alright that you panicked…I can understand why you would, given the nature of what you were told.” 

It was easy to press a little closer into Dean’s arms and nudge against Dean’s nose in return. “I do enjoy touching you in any way I can get away with.” He said running his hands down Dean’s face and neck. “But I also know you will probably react poorly to any sort of inappropriate touching where your brother or Bobby can see.” He leaned back a bit so he could slide his arms around Dean’s waist.

Leaning forward again he caught Dean’s lips in teasing kiss. “But since we’re here all alone…I can think of some very…inappropriate touching to do. Unless you’d like to continue watching,” Castiel twisted to look at the tv. “Dr. Sexy MD.” He arched a brow at Dean and waited for an answer.

"Yeah, I got that much. Thought lying was a sin," Dean mumbled, pleased to find Castiel's eyes open again, despite the fact that that stare, right now, was making him squirm a bit. It was disconcerting how much focus could be in one damned pair of eyes, really; it wasn't just the bright blue of them--though of course that might have helped it--either. Dean often felt as though, with all that focused attention directed at him, he was laid bare and pretty much a wide open book for the angel to read.

Disconcerting, yes, but when coupled with hands sliding down his sides and the sudden press of lips against his, also hot as hell, if Dean just ignored the trippy butterflies rising in his gut. Especially when Castiel's minute facial expressions shifted to include that slight hint of something devious, which Dean had no idea where he'd learned.

That look certainly hadn't been there at first, but it was starting to show up more and more often. Dean didn't mind at all. 

He followed Castiel's lips a few inches as the angel leaned away, huffing out a short, embarrassed snort of a laugh. "It was on," he offered, shrugging and nodding at the TV. Which was a lie, of course, but Cas didn't need to know about his little soap-watching secrets. 

Disentangling his hands from under Castiel's coat took some willpower and stepping away forced a small sigh out of him, but Dean still managed to shoot Cas a shit-eating grin as he flopped back down onto the ratty couch; the thing was minuscule, barely large enough to accommodate two people, but he reached up and tugged at Castiel's belt all the same. 

"You can think of inappropriate touching, huh? Why don't you show me instead?" he drawled, settling himself back comfortably into the couch. He sneaked one hand to his side--the one not currently sliding fingers into the waistband of Castiel's slacks--and fumbled for the remote control, flicking the TV off before throwing the remote somewhere over his shoulder. 

"Or better yet, tell me all about it, and then show me." Dean was still smirking, staring up at the angel and thinking that Azrael had gotten it all wrong; there was absolutely nothing bad about Castiel and a little bit of debauchery, not when it softened the sharp edges of his face into something wild and just a tad uncontrolled. And especially not when the rough gravel of his voice went subsonic, as though he suddenly became some crazed phone-sex operator who had the amusing habit of stating the obvious.

Castiel stayed standing for as long as it took for him slide his trench coat and suit jacket off. Then he sank to his knees between Dean’s legs. “Tell you about it first?” He asked running his hands up Dean’s inner thighs.

“I think I can manage that.” He kneaded at the firm muscle of said thighs for a moment. “I really want to take you into my mouth,” he murmured finger walking a hand up to the fly of Dean’s jeans. “I find the heavy weight of your member against my tongue quite…exhilarating, Dean.”

Castiel licked his lips and undid the button under his fingers with a heated look up at Dean. “The sounds you make are also quite enjoyable.” The angel mused, working the zipper of Dean’s jeans down and his member free. He dropped his eyes to Dean’s erection and leaned forward to lap slowly at the glans.

The somewhat crummy surroundings of the motel room went dim and dark for Dean pretty much the very second Castiel's knees hit the threadbare carpet at his feet. It shouldn't have come as a surprise--really, it shouldn't have--but after Azrael's little revelation he still felt a completely unrepentant surge of mindless want when every single word out of the archangel's mouth seemed to be proven wrong with the firm touch of Castiel's hands through the thick denim of Dean's jeans.

He only managed a breathless chuckle and a firm nod, because after that Cas was working his fly open, going after it not with his usual single-minded focus but with a sort of mischievous twinkle in his eye that made all sorts of heat flare up in Dean's gut. His pants weren't so much unzipped as bursted open, cock tenting through his jeans so hard Castiel almost didn't need to actually pull the zipper.

By the time Castiel's words actually registered Dean was a goner, arching back into the stiff and uncomfortable springs of the couch underneath him. "Exhilarating, really? Where I'm from, Cas, we usually just go--" Thankfully, the words 'love your cock in my mouth' never left Dean's lips, because Castiel chose that exact moment to lean closer and viciously attack the head of his dick with a series of slow swipes of tongue.

And then even the springy couch didn't matter, as Dean's breathing hitched and he choked on a curse--fuck, what he wouldn't give to know a few choice swear words that didn't involve God or Christ or anybody else too holy for this. His left hand slotted itself at the junction of Castiel's neck and jaw, thumb stroking slowly upwards on a path towards the angel's lips, and the other one went for Cas' hair. It tangled itself there, fisting a handful of dark strands, and Dean had to physically fight the urge to pull Castiel closer, to twitch upwards and turn these teasing licks into full-blown throat-fucking.

A low, tremulous and happy groan wrenched itself from his throat as Dean sank into the couch and arched into it, smearing a glistening line of precome and spit along Castiel's lower lip. His fingers tightened as he let loose a strangled, low-pitched whine at the sight; there, right there, was the debauched taint Azrael had been speaking about, sparking bright and shiny against Castiel's lips, and goddamn it all if it wasn't the hottest thing Dean had ever seen.

"Cas... C'mon, man, don't... freakin' tease me," he breathed, forcing his fingers away from where they'd been rubbing the glint of moisture into Castiel's lip to clutch tightly around the base of his shaft after a long, teasing slide over his own flesh that pretty much negated what he'd just said.

Castiel let out a little growl and reached out to grip Dean’s wrist and pulled his hand away from his member. “None of that,” He said with a firm squeeze to the wrist in hand before pressing it against the arm rest of the couch. “Don’t make me tie your hands, Dean.” 

The angel pulled back enough to tug Dean’s jeans down to his ankles with one efficient jerk. He licked his lips and replaced the hand he’d pulled away from Dean with his own. “Exhilarating is very much the proper word for what I feel.” He added leaning in to wrap his lips around the head of Dean’s member.

There was nothing like it in all his experiences before he’d met Dean. The heady weight of Dean’s member on his tongue and sliding across his lips, tongue and soft palette as he took it into his mouth. Castiel didn’t know why what by rights could have felt like a demeaning action for him got him so excited. Maybe it was the knowledge that it set Dean off so quickly. The slow slide of his mouth over heated flesh as he made sure to maintain eye contact with Dean.

The brush of his own fingers had barely registered to Dean's excited senses when Castiel wrapped a hand in an iron grip around his wrist and forced his hand away; there wasn't much chance of resisting that pull, not when the grip squeezed and pushed with the weight of whatever freaky angelic mojo Cas wrangled into forcing Dean's hand flush against the edge of the couch. He managed a scornful growl, tested the grip once and found it nearly unmovable, and would have further protested if Cas hadn't spoken again.

The words alone wouldn't have forced a moan from Dean's throat, but coupled with hot breath over his exposed cock and a more than firm hand all but shoving his jeans down, Dean figured he couldn't be blamed for the strangled, half-bitten off and frustrated groan that he let loose in the quiet of the motel room.

"Friggin' hell, Cas" he hissed between his teeth, just a little too far gone to manage a fond little quip about over-eager angels and learning curves.

Trust Castiel to be all loose-limbed and willing, arching flesh when bent back over the hood of the Impala and to somehow revert back into the Castiel whose gravel-smooth voice exorcised demons when he was breathing over Dean's aching flesh. There was something supremely unfair about that; and having his hand slapped away from his own dick shouldn't have been a damned turn-on, but God, it was. 

"We... really need to work on your bedroom talk, man," was all Dean managed before Castiel's lips wrapped around his cock. It was, no pun intended, freaking heavenly, and whatever Cas lacked in up front technique he more than made up for in enthusiasm. It wasn't even that intense, Dean knew, objectively, but Castiel--a friggin' angel of the lord, and that never got old--seemed totally absorbed in the suddenly all-important task of lavishing searing hot, wet attention on every inch of Dean's cock.

And, when Dean actually managed to tear his heavy-lidded eyes away from the ceiling, was apparently staring up through his lashes at him, and had probably been staring--all dilated-pupils and hazy blue eyes--up all this time.

Belatedly, he realized Castiel had off-handedly mentioned tying him down, and though something like wounded pride and well-tamed terror rose up at the thought, Dean was a bit surprised to find himself grunting out a panting, strangled moan, pushing up into Castiel's mouth until he met resistance at the angel's fist wrapped around the base of his shaft. For some reason--oh, he knew why, he just wasn't up to examining that just now, with Castiel's lips around him warm and tight and just freaking perfect--he left his hand exactly where Cas had pushed it into the couch, curling his fingers into the material there.

He couldn't say anything, the feel of that hot mouth and the sight of Castiel kneeling between his legs like he belonged there robbing Dean of any words that weren't 'God' or 'sweet Jesus fucking Christ'. He settled for a strangled, rising moan and leaning back deeper into the couch, sliding forward a few inches so he could slouch and let his fingers slip from Castiel's hair and wander down to tease, shaking a bit, at the angel's lips where they stretched--God, he was so going back to hell--around his cock.

"F-fuck," he choked out, staring dazedly down at Castiel, sliding his hand to the back of the angel's neck and stroking there, dazed. 

Castiel let himself groan around the heated flesh between his lips as worked his head up and down attempting to gain some sort technique to what he was doing. He gauged how he was doing by the sounds Dean was making.

He began to move his hand in concord with the movement of his head, squeezing and stroking even as he sucked and teased with mouth and tongue. He wanted to hear every little sound he could wring out of Dean’s mouth. Castiel fluttered his tongue along the underside Dean’s member, contemplating how to continue.

Shifting and carefully pulling off of Dean’s erection he licked his lips and climbed carefully into Dean’s lap after using his grace to will his own pants away. “Fuck,” He said, as if testing out the word and rolling it over his tongue as he lined stroked his hand over Dean’s erection before aligning it with his entrance. “is certainly the idea here, Dean.” He carefully pressed down, taking Dean in with the slightest hitch in his breathing. They really needed to start using proper preparation for this aspect of things.

It was bliss, pretty much; warm and moist and everything Dean's filthy brain had imagined, and then some. He certainly hadn't counted on Castiel's usual focus and curiosity to be turned on him quite this way, but that's exactly what this was. And it was turning out to be one of the best damned blowjobs he'd ever been on the receiving end of, even if he counted the few pros he'd called on over the years.

Cas tested him, with quick flicks of tongue and smart, well-timed strokes of his hand, and Dean felt like every single minute motion was followed by a short, thoughtful pause, as if Castiel was waiting to see how he'd react. And react he did, curling his fingers tight in the angel's hair, slamming his head back against the thankfully soft couch, arching upwards into a soft touch or a hint of tongue prodding at his cock. 

It was maddening, the rhythm of it all jarring and just that slightest bit off, just enough to have him panting breathlessly and aching for more. He wanted hard and fast, wanted to bury himself into the slick heat of Castiel's throat, yet at the same time he wanted to simply touch, let his fingers play just on the sharp edge of the angel's jaw, not quite bucking upwards at every lick and suck, rolling his hips lazily as he leaned back and simply appreciated the feeling.

He was dazed and panting by the time Castiel pulled away from his flesh, too far gone to do anything except blink and mutter his displeasure at the loss of glorious suction with a low, stunted grunt.

The sense of loss lasted only a second though, because as soon as Castiel pulled away Dean felt heat wrap around his thighs, the angel his own personal space-heater for the time being,--yeah, despite it all, he had the presence of mind to notice how slim and bony those knees were--and then the angel was arching up against him. 

"You... honestly doing jokes -now-, Cas?" he mumbled, voice catching on a hiss as Castiel straightened up, seemed to shift his weight onto his knees and simply sank down onto Dean's cock like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Dean really should've stopped him, or at least slowed him down, but the initial breach into Castiel, that slick, too-tight glide into warmth took him completely by surprise. He groaned, nearly fused himself with the ratty couch at his back, and quickly wrestled his hands down to catch and grab onto Castiel. He sank his fingers into the hard flesh and firm jut of hipbone and thigh, hard, choking on a moan that threatened to overwhelm him, and it simply wouldn't do for Dean Winchester to blow his load early, to lose himself in the tight clench of flesh as Castiel's pelvis rocked downwards to meet him until he was balls-deep in sin.

And God help him, but he'd never get enough of this. Castiel was tight like a bowstring over him, pants having disappeared somewhere--Dean muttered a low 'Oh, hell yeah, that's the best friggin' use of your mojo yet' into the space where Cas' shoulder met his collarbone--and the angel was only wearing, incongruously, his white shirt and tie.

"Move, God, please, move," Dean caught himself asking, arching back with an insistent hiss and a twitch of his hips. When his shoulders hit the couch he twisted, reached down to grab the edges of his t-shirt and pull it over his head, then grabbed for Castiel's tie--he'd never again sneer at cheap office porn, because a dude with a tie really was sort of fun in his lap--and pulled him close until he could lean up and devour his mouth.

“You seem to be some sort of influence on me that way, Dean.” Castiel said bracing himself with both hands on the back of the couch. He bent forward over Dean following the pull at his tie. The angel moaned into the kiss rolling his hips slowly setting up an almost teasing pace.

It was like sin itself to raise himself up on Dean’s flesh and lower himself back down on to it. “Say my name, Dean.” He breathed against Dean’s lips grinding his hips down and raising up slowly. “My true name, please, say it.”

To hear Dean panting his name like it was a prayer would undoubtedly be the most arousing thing he’d ever heard. And Dean, Dean was inside him almost all around him, enveloping him in everything Dean was. The angel didn’t speed up his slow rolling pace of thrusts as he rode Dean’s member waiting for Dean to act or speak.

Dean barely registered how Castiel's arms came up on both sides of his head, how the angel's hands fisted in the cheap material of the couch's stuffing, lost as he was in the kiss and the excruciatingly slow pull of Castiel--warm, Jesus, so fucking warm--as the angel rose up and then ground back down around his cock. If he'd had words to spare, he might've managed to wax freakin' poetic about the tight clench around him, about how he wasn't bothered at all by the fact that Castiel seemed intent on keeping a murderously slow pace.

About how even the knowledge that he was fairly penned in by a pair of arms Dean was certain he couldn't ever hope to move didn't even bother him in the slightest. If anything, he'd never felt safer, so right, and if he'd had even a few brain cells left and enough blood not currently engaged in feeling every inch of nearly too-warm flesh around his dick to spare to manage a coherent thought, he might've panicked at how easily they fitted in together.

Because this shit simply didn't happen, not to him at least, and certainly not so easily. 

Castiel's voice brought him back, though, stunted the next upwards thrust of his hips as he bucked and fucked desperately into the warmth of the angel's body. His fingers, which had settled themselves around Castiel's hips, dug in sharply as he drew in a stuttered gasp of a breath. 

He still had a death grip on the tie though, and he wrapped his hand around it twice before slamming his head back against the couch, panting like a racehorse.

"C-Cas, Jesus, you kinky bastard..." he stuttered, swallowed, tried to ignore the teasing rush of constant friction as Castiel kept moving, way too slow to actually drive him towards release and still, somehow, just perfect. It was different like this, and he had absolutely zero control over the pace though for some reason that was alright. He bucked upwards, an aborted twitch of his pelvis that had him sinking deep as Castiel descended on him once more, and gave up.

It certainly wasn't the first time Dean Winchester had thrown the towel, but it was, without a doubt, the very first time where he did so willingly, feeling loose and comfortable even if every inch of him was coiled tightly, lost in something that definitely wasn't pain.

He wrestled his hand free of the tie and slapped his palm around Castiel's neck, inhaling sharply against the angel's lips. And he'd had a whole sentence--nearly coherent, even--prepared, just so he could fling it back at Castiel, about that whole 'scream my name' issue that was so close to chick material Dean almost bristled. But it died on his lips on the next downward stroke of Castiel's body against his, swallowed by a heartfelt groan.

"Cas, fuck, Cas." Another groan, and Dean's hand practically flew from Castiel's hip and wrapped around his cock, fisting him in a tight grip as his eyes finally shuttered close. 

His climax hit him as he closed his fist around Castiel and Dean lost a few seconds then, arching rigidly off the couch and groaning out a panting and breathless--too loud, no doubt, and that was it for his safety deposit--shout of, 'Castiel!' as he came, releasing deep inside the angel. He felt it like a punch to the gut, all the way through his toes, and slumped back against the couch, dazed.

Castiel let out moan that sounded close to a choked off sob when Dean’s hand closed around his member. The powerful thrust and climax that followed made him shiver and jerk into Dean’s hand futilely. It was more the near perfect combination of pressure around his erection and the breathy invocation of his Name, that sent the angel over the edge.

With a moan and the nearly routine dimming of lights around the room Castiel bucked up into Dean’s hand once, twice, three times before he was coming. He clutched at Dean’s shoulders and buried his face in the crook of Dean’s neck.

It occurred to him that he should explain the whole power behind invoking his Name to Dean at some point. But not just yet, he was fair more interested in basking in the hazy glow of release and the scent that was uniquely Dean. “Dean,” He murmured instead of the more possessive ‘mine’ he found he wanted to say instead. As much as he’d have liked it he couldn’t pretend to have any claim on Dean. The man had made it clear – though not in so many words- that he was no ones.

It took some effort to peel his eyes open and when he did he surreptitiously looked for exploded lightbulbs; his ego wilted just a tiny bit when he realized everything was still intact. Somehow, Dean managed an exhausted chuckle as Castiel shifted closer, twitching around him as though his body hadn't quite decided it was quite over having fun yet. The movement forced an interested twitch out of Dean's cock, but despite the glorious, slick warmth of the angel--yeah, still heading downstairs at some point, there was no question about it now--it felt pretty clear and final that little Dean was out for the count.

"Yeah, still here. Just barely, Cas," he rumbled in response, grinning lazily up at the ceiling while both of his hands trailed upwards from Castiel's hips to tuck him closer against him. The movement shifted Cas in his lap and he slid out with a low, pleased grunt, stretching out his legs as he relaxed in a loose slump. "So, that was all on you, huh? No freaky angelic compulsions about orders or obeying or any of that crap? 'Cause I gotta say, it's--"

Dean stopped, froze up for about half a second and then realized how stupid and ridiculous he was being. This was Cas. Cas, Castiel, who'd been, as far he knew, a near immortal virgin when Dean had met him. If anyone was entitled to a little bit of relaxed flirting and post-coital cuddling, it sure as hell should be Cas, even if the thought of admitting that out loud made something clench painfully in Dean's gut.

And here, now, if he stopped to analyze that, he'd think about how he was starting to get a nasty feeling that this was it, this was the thing he'd more or less managed to run from for nearly all his adult life, and if he wasn't careful it could also be the thing that broke him and left him even more battered and bruised than all the shit Alastair had done to him downstairs.

Which was altogether way too melodramatic and girly for a situation where Dean's stomach was currently slathered in slowly cooling come. He shook his head and chuckled, dragging one hand upwards to twine his fingers gently into Castiel's hair, only belatedly hoping that he wasn't adding unfortunate smearing of bodily fluids all over an angel's hair to his already long list of sins. The thought made him grin wider. 

"It's nice, yeah. This is nice," he finally finished, tilting his head to bring his mouth near Castiel's ear because he was way too sated and lazy to properly enunciate at this point. "You're not flying off just yet, right? Only I bought donuts and beer, and there's probably something on TV, and you really don't wanna leave me alone with that box of donuts, man. Sammy'd never forgive you for indirectly clogging my arteries."

Castiel shifted so Dean slid out of him, he shivered and after a thought his grace whisked away any unseemly mess. “Yes, Dean. That was all on me, though some of it was also your fault you stubborn man.” He murmured relaxing against Dean’s chest.

“Mmmm eating a box of donuts without worry is one of the perks to having me around I’m sure.” He said with a small smile. “Along with drinking like you do and still having a perfectly healthy liver.” He had been using his grace and healing abilities to insure that Dean was perfectly health since before they’d begun their trysting. 

He’d continue it too. Until he was told not to do so any longer. “Mmm I will admit, I do enjoy it when you tell me what to do when we’re intimate, Dean. “ He said into Dean’s neck. It was true to, when Dean told him what he wanted, or just flat what to do in bed he liked it. It wasn’t the same pleased feeling of obeying Orders from the host, but something warm and filling in his chest. He didn’t really know what the term for that emotion was but it was almost addictive.

Dean rolled his eyes because he knew he could get away with it, with Cas pretty much intent on burying his face against Dean's neck. It should've been awkward as hell--hello, weird nuzzling, and he didn't even have the benefit of a hard dick to blame as an excuse--and it should've been mildly uncomfortable, because as much as Dean liked to remind himself at times that Castiel was an angel who was probably made out of light, air, butterflies, weird energy and whatever the hell else, he was also firmly rooted in a very male body that tended to be on the fuzzy side.

Dean was pretty sure he was already getting a hint of beard burn, and wouldn't that be a bitch to explain later on?

Still, he didn't move away, only kept grinning like an idiot when Cas didn't all out declare he'd be fluttering off in any hurry. "Dude, really? C'mon on, Cas, nobody says 'intimate' like that. It's..." But his tone was fond and teasing and Dean couldn't bring himself to say 'just sex', so he didn't. "Never mind. I draw the line at you ever saying 'intercourse', though, for the record."

And it was perhaps a testament to just how lost Dean was that he didn't realize Cas had more or less admitted he'd been healing him constantly for a few very long minutes while his brain followed the bright trail of thought that lead him from 'I enjoy it when you tell me what to do' all the way into some vivid mental images that involved Castiel's tie, a hopefully solid headboard and, strangely, some Reddi-wip. He wasn't entirely sure where the whipped cream idea had come from aside from the fact that those donuts were starting to sound like a mighty fine idea.

So he really couldn't be blamed that he didn't quite manage to wrangle up an appropriate amount of outrage at the fact that Castiel had been mojo-ing him behind his back; whipped cream, ties and headboards did not provide a mental backdrop that was in any way conducive to outrage. Especially when he was still catching his breath.

"And eventually we'll have to have words about you messin' with my insides," he slurred, still slumped bonelessly on the couch, though now, at least, he wasn't sticky anymore. He could see the bag from the donut place resting on the desk near the TV, but it was miles--couple feet, really--away, and there was no way in hell he was getting up for it now, not when he was so damned comfortable exactly where he was.

He turned and sighed against the side of Castiel's face, breath puffing out and ruffling his already wild hair; Sammy would probably be calling him soon--had probably already left more worried messages on his cell--but for the moment Dean could pretend that nothing existed outside this crummy motel room and the warmth of Castiel's slack body against his, even if he felt stupidly guilty about letting his brother worry. It was doubtful he'd be coherent enough to manage a phone call right now anyway.

“I’ve been healing you and nothing more. Correcting whatever damage your self-destructive tendencies cause,” Castiel muttered, sliding his arms around Dean’s neck and all but daring him to complain. “I want you to live a very long and healthy life, Dean. Even if you seem to be racing towards an early grave without adding in the fact you’re a hunter.”

The angel wouldn’t say that the thought of watching Dean die for good wasn’t something he ever wanted to see. That he thought he could handle seeing. Watching Dean grow old while he remained forever the same itself was painful. 

That he was immortal and so attached to a mortal was just pain waiting to happen. It wasn’t something he was ever going to mention to Dean. Who knew how long this trysting would last or if Dean wanted it to be something more…permanent or not. Not until he knew what he was going to do. The idea of once things where settled simply fading into humanity was becoming very attractive.

"Self-destructi--... Jesus, did you and Sam form a fan club for my kidneys while I wasn't looking or what?" Dean mumbled blearily. He tried, and failed, to muster up a suitable amount of outrage and simply settled for staying exactly where he was. It wasn't overly difficult to do, not with the warm, firm weight of Castiel's thighs pressing against his legs. 

He let both hands settle there, huffing out a warm breath of air over the angel's lips. Two months ago, he would have laughed at the idea that this post-coital touching would be anything but weird; right now, it was difficult to keep his hands away from Castiel's skin. And that had little to do with the actual feel of him--him, her, it, whatever the hell angels were--and everything to do with how right it felt to just melt, to let go for half a second and pretend another friggin' apocalypse wasn't happening right on their doorstep.

Not for the first time, Dean wished he could just take a damned holiday; this time, though, it felt like a holiday could be something more than simply shirking whatever responsibilities the world saw fit to dump onto the "Righteous Man"'s shoulders. This time it felt like it should be an extended leave, a vacation that included lazy mornings and coffee and unlimited access to Castiel. Unlimited access to whatever the hell it was about the angel that made him, sometimes, believe that everything would be okay.

"Tell you what, I'll promise to lay off the booze if you promise to stop freaking pulling out the Houdini-disappearing act on my ass without warning." Dean gave Castiel's thighs a light squeeze; the short, coarse hair there should've phased him. Somehow he wasn't surprised that he didn't even flinch or pause. "And you keep us in the loop, man. No more waiting until we got all of Hell's guard dogs nipping at our heels to explain why you're suddenly getting twitchy with us mud monkeys, okay?" 'Cause that shit had stung, probably deeper than Castiel knew.

Dean wasn't anything special--there were loads of hunters out there who did just as much good, if not a lot more, as he did--and this, this easy bond, the fact that he was allowed so much, that he could just reach out and touch bare skin, it still felt partly like blasphemy and partly like too good to be true. That he seemed to crave it, that he reached out even though he knew getting all dressed up and pimped out and nervous like some high school cheerleader over a goddamned angel of the Lord, didn't exactly reassure him that he wasn't overstepping his bounds, somehow.

Castiel's face was so close, though, and his lips were inviting in a way that Jimmy Novak's had never been, parted and kiss-bruised and Dean, after all, was only human. He tightened his fingers into Cas' thighs and leaned upwards for a leisurely, sated kiss, just in case Castiel got any funny ideas about fluttering away without so much as a by-your-leave.

Castiel rested his forehead against Dean’s and lazily returned the kiss. The urge to wrap Dean in his wings or grace or both. The angel hummed settling more comfortably against Dean smirking lazily against Dean’s lips. “I apologize for not keeping you informed, Dean.” He murmured.

“I sometimes forget that just because I’ve told the host what I’ve learned you don’t get that information.” He said reaching out tentatively with his grace to curl it across Dean’s skin and wrap him in his grace protectively. “There have been whispers among the host that there is a Judas in our midst.” 

Castiel sighed. “But I’m not going to disappear on you without warning again if I can help it, Dean.” He traced his fingers along Dean’s sides. “But there are dangers to my brothers I must also tend to.” He didn’t like to admit it. But if he was needed to battle or defend those of his brothers that fought.

“Demons have… attacked and killed many of my brothers that fought on earth in recent days. Since Raphael died and Azrael vanished. You said he told you these things that upset you so?” Castiel asked frowning and using his grace to knead lightly at the muscles in Dean’s back seeking to simulate the same messaging that Dean once did for him.

Of course, of course, Cas would start talking shop at the exact time he decided that a full-body mojo-massage was required. Dean sighed, rolling his eyes in a half-assed way that would've had Sam pointedly stare at him and demand he get his ass to bed. Something sneaked under his shirt, under the low-riding waist of his jeans and, it felt like, under his skin. It felt warm and soft, buzzing with that weird, familiar tang of angel that told him it was Castiel who was, in fact, sneaking whatever weird angelic appendages he had over Dean's skin.

In short, it was fucking cheating, because a damned tingly metaphysical octopus-magic massage right after a ming-blowing orgasm was in no way conducive to a coherent conversation. Dean felt his eyelids droop closed even as he answered, melting visibly into a loose tangle of limbs under the onslaught. "Yeah, yeah, I get it. Upstairs business, it's fine, Cas. M'just asking for a shout-out before I get a face full of feathers, you know?" he slurred back, blinking dully at his hands still clenched over Castiel's upper thighs.

It was a nice sight, even if those thighs were lightly furred and not at all what he would've called a 'goddamned sexy pair of tanned, toned legs'. And it was so hard to concentrate, and even harder to remember why he usually preferred to go for women, with whatever passed for Cas' freaky grace-fingers working some freakin' PG-rated magic on his lower back and spine.

He hissed in a breath just as he firmly clamped down on the thought that, yeah, magic fingers? Could be useful and awesome in oh so many ways, if he could convince Cas to bring the mojo into the bedroom. Or the couch, as it were. He chuckled, a little breathlessly and more than slightly unhinged by the warm, heavy droning weight of exhaustion and some ridiculously awesome sex. 

"Azrael said... Yeah, fucker ran his pretty little mouth a lot. Wasn't paying much--Oooh, that's nice, shit," he mumbled, interrupted by a pleasant spread of warmth somewhere along his spine, a pressure of electrical buzz that trailed upwards to his shoulders and danced like a banked fire along his skin. He arched into it, a lazy smile on his lips, eyes nearly closed. "Uh... So yeah..." Azrael, right. Important discussion which had nothing at all to do with the thai-massage equivalent of two-months' salary being wasted on a padded table and a girl with too much makeup and freakishly-long nails.

Dean knew massages--intimately--and he was ashamed to admit that, right now, he might somehow end up being lulled to sleep by the strange, buzzing warmth dancing along his nerves. "Um, yeah. Said he... You... and orders--Doesn't matter right now, right? You've got your stuff to deal with upstairs and--" Interrupted again, this time by a wide yawn he made no attempt to hide, Dean curled his hands over firm muscle and glided upwards, to brush against Castiel's bird-like hipbones lazily. 

"... And I got some freaking actual magic fingers on me and you're mojoing me to sleep, aren't you?" he finished, closing his eyes after a deep, contented sigh escaped him.

“I hardly need to induce sleep this time do I?” Castiel asked with another smile even as he began to work the little fingers of grace kneading Dean’s back into small circles. “Sleep Dean. You need not worry about me.”

Even as he spoke he listened to the host and knew that Hanael and Jaramel where both fighting for their lives. The angel kissed Dean’s forehead and kept up the gentle messaging until Dean drifted into sleep. He carefully replaced Dean’s clothing as well as his own. He didn’t want to leave Dean to wake up alone but he could not listen to his brothers die.

So once he was sure Dean was asleep he rushed to help them combat the enemy. Someone –something knew were and when the angels stationed on earth where and was picking them off one by one. He had to try and save them. To many angels where dying, he’d known when the order came down to start protecting seals. To pull Dean Winchester out of hell, to began to fight. But it still hurt.

"Sneaky son 'f a bitch," Dean muttered, already half-dozing when he felt lips brush against his forehead. It was light, too tender and way too intimate, and he should've recoiled, or said something to distract them both from the closeness. But with Castiel's grace skimming along his skin it was practically impossible to summon any sort of outrage. This wasn't some guy kissing him goodnight, because that would've been absurdly ridiculous.

This was Cas, going back upstairs to do whatever the hell it was he did up there, and Dean had actually gotten exactly what he'd wanted; a sort of goodbye instead of Castiel just poofing away between one sentence and the next. 

"Prefer this over the finger-jab in the forehead, 'nyway," were the last words out of his mouth before sleep took him, and he wasn't sure how coherent they'd been. He didn't feel his clothes being set to rights, and he didn't feel Castiel leave.

Because as soon as he closed his eyes, he was dreaming. It wasn't a surprising dream, really; what was surprising was how long it had been since the last time he'd visited this goddamned place. His mind always tried to twist the little corner of hell that had been his personal prison and home for forty years, but there was no point, really. It was already dark and twisted, and even the sight of the rack--no frills in his memories, no unnecessary carvings or what have you, just a long plank of steel and a slew of thick leather restraints--was somehow made bigger and stranger, as though the blood and shadows that Dean knew from memory weren't enough to freak him out in his dreams.

"Dean."

The voice was familiar, soft and worried and choked, and Dean twisted around to find Sam, strapped and wrapped and trussed onto another rack. Something like a wounded sob escaped Dean's throat and he glanced down at his hands when he noticed the sharp edge of something cold digging into his palms.

"No. No, no, no--"

"Dean, come on, it's okay. Just untie me and we can leave."

He was almost at Sammy's side, walking in that strange, too-slow gait he only recognized in his dreams, when a heavy hand fell on Dean's shoulder and turned him slowly around. Hot breath, disgusting and close and stinking of blood and sulphur, hit his ear and the side of his face as Alastair leaned in.

"Not so fast, boy." The demon's other hand--cold, wet and slick with blood--reached down and curled Dean's fingers tighter around the knife he was still, inexplicably, holding. "You only get to free one of them, Dean. The other one stays here. With you," Alastair hissed, twisting him firmly aside and shoving lightly at the small of Dean's back. 

He could almost hear the smile in those words, and he knew even before his raised his eyes and met shocking blue. Sammy was still talking, telling him everything'd be okay if he just got up--when had Dean's knees struck the floor?--and untied him so they could both leave. He didn't hear a single word of it, staring in dull, crushing horror at Castiel, laid out bare and unmoving.

Alastair, behind him, laughed, a thin, wheedling sound, and Dean screamed.

And he woke doing exactly that, voice hoarse as he shot upright, clutching at sheets that weren't there; he had fallen asleep on the couch, and there was no trace of the angel. Breathing like a racehorse and with his heart beating frantically in his chest, Dean stared down at his hands, half expecting to see the dark stain of blood--God, Cas had bled so much, so much--marring his skin.

"Shit," he hissed as he sank back down, shaking like a damned leaf, completely unable to control how badly his hands were trembling. "Shit, shit, shit... I can't do this." His phone, on the small table next to the couch, was blinking with the notification icon indicating several missed messages. He ignored it for as long as he could, then finally reached over, picked it up and dialled Bobby's number, swallowing several times to try and get his strangled voice under control.

"Hey, Bobby," he forced out as soon as the line picked up. "You can tell Sammy he can stop filling my message inbox, now. I'm fine."

“Fine? Well that’s good to know your fine.” Bobby growled into the phone. “As if that wasn’t the biggest load of horse shit I’ve ever heard. Where are ya so your brother can come tell you what a damned fool you are.” He’d known for awhile that something was going on with Dean and Castiel.

Judging the boy and his feathered friend wasn’t even in the agenda. Dean and Sam where like sons to him and he loved them just the same gay, straight or damned to hell. Considering both boys had been to hell he wasn’t about to change now.

Dean paused for a moment, wondering what the hell he'd done that had tipped Bobby off. Would've been too easy, of course, for the old hunter to simply believe him and let this one drop. "I mean it; it had nothing to do with the whole Apocalypse 2.0, and it's over anyway and no big deal," he answered, keeping his voice carefully measured and neutral. 

He knew it was a complete lie, of course; this was a big deal, and he was so screwed he wasn't even certain what he should do about it. He only knew there was no way in hell he could survive a situation like what he'd seen in his dream; if any of the fallen angels or demons realized what was going on in Dean's head, everything would go to shit faster than he could even blink. One or both of them would get hurt, and Dean couldn't let anything happen to Sammy, but if somehow Cas got hurt because of him, Dean knew it would break him.

He'd already seen it happen, in that bleak future--'Why not bang a few gongs before the lights go out?'--and he was in no hurry to repeat the experience. 

"Doesn't matter. I got over it," he finally continued, scrubbing a still-shaking hand over his face. "I'm in, uh..." It had been mostly on the way, and when Dean had reached the state border, confused and angry at himself, he had stopped at the same motel where he'd had a close encounter with a mirrored ceiling; it had been impossible to drive on through. He didn't even have any idea where Sammy had gone after he'd taken off, and for the first time in four days, he felt guilty as sin for leaving his kid brother in some hotel somewhere between here and Sioux Falls.

"Illinois. Pontiac. Same joint where Sam and I shacked up when I... When... Well, you know. Same place." Dean stared up at the ceiling--no mirrors this time at least, small mercies--and sighed into his phone. "Anyway, I won't be gone long. I'll get back on the road tomorrow, so Sam had better keep his ass right where he is. I don't need freaking babysitting, Bobby," he added, concluding with a brisk 'talk to you later' and flipping his phone shut.

He panicked almost as soon as the silence hit him, though. The first thought into his head was 'where the hell has Cas gone?', swiftly followed by a crushing worry, that somehow his dream hadn't been just his own sick subconscious mind trying to fuck with him. And while before the guilt had been debilitating, this nagging fear was absolute. It was worrying about Sammy's safety all over again, it was wondering if Cas was going to get his ass smote out there without Dean ever knowing. It was helpless and it made bile rise up in his throat, because Sam he could always at least protect, whereas Castiel was a goddamned angel.

And if something came for him, there was shit-all nothing Dean could do about it. 

The room closed in on him, dark and oppressive, and suddenly he had to get out of there. Dean grabbed his keys, stuffed them into his jacket's pocket and all but fled outside, where the sun was just setting. 

Booze, that's what he needed. A couple drinks would do the trick, just enough to take the edge off so he could feel human again. He bypassed the Impala and simply walked.

Bobby scoffed when Dean hung up and dialed Sam’s number. He’d give Sam the heads up as to where Dean was and let the two idjits work it out themselves. The phone rang a few times before Sam answered.

“Hello, Bobby?” Sam sounded worried and like he hadn’t slept since Bobby last spoke to him.

“Yer idjit brother finally called me. He’s in that motel in Pontiac we stayed in when he first got pulled out of hell.” Bobby grumbled into the phone more than ready to drive there himself and beat some sense into Dean.

“Well I’ll get down there and try to talk some sense into him, then. Thanks for letting me know, Bobby.”

“Yeah, yeah. Let me know if you two idjits need help.” After that they hung up and Sam stole a car to drive to Pontiac in.

Dean had no idea how it happened, aside from the obvious; he'd walked into the first bar he'd found, expecting little more than smoke and darkness and the easy promise of getting raging drunk. The woman had been what he liked to call a raging hot cougar, clearly past her prime but still rocking the skirt and heels like nobody's business, prowling the club like a veritable wildcat out on the hunt. 

And she'd been pretty, really, all long blonde hair and creamy pale skin. There'd been a whole lot of that skin on display too, up to a smooth expanse of flesh at the swell of her breasts, where a top that might've been chic and classy on a slimmer, less well-endowed figure advertised the fact that this fine lady had been in no mood for conversation.

It had been almost too easy to talk her back to his hotel room; too easy to let her slide into the passenger's seat, too easy to open the door and fumble it closed again in between heated kisses which she obviously wanted him to dominate. Much too easy to fall forward onto the bed and ignore the past few weeks--months, years, decades--of his life. The nearly twelve shots of whiskey he'd had time to guzzle down at the bar helped with that, too, the forgetting, though thankfully not so much that he couldn't perform, and when she fell back onto the bed with a throaty chuckle and called him, mistakenly, Don, he didn't bother correcting her, simply rolling over with a tired grunt and calling it a night.

He certainly hadn't expected her to actually sleep in the damned room--really, there should actually be a published rulebook for one-nighters--and when he woke he found her just getting up, struggling into her top one-handed while she finished the drags of a cigarette with the other. 

Dean frowned, pressed a hand to his pounding forehead and managed a tight, awkward, "Hey. Uh, morning."

"Don't worry, hon, I'll be out of your hair in a minute," she breathed around a puff of smoke, shuffling forward to wrestle her feet back into her discarded heels. "I feel like I should thank you, but then I know you had a good time last night, kid, so I won't." And she winked, then, as though that was it, the entire reason behind this mad game he'd just played, and Dean could only nod. 

He realized then he had no idea what she was called, and didn't care in the slightest. 

"Thanks, babe. Work's a bitch, you know," he managed to force out, slumping back against the pillows.

"Sure it is. I took the liberty of adding my name into your phone. In case you ever drive past this town again." She picked up her purse with a little flaunting jut of hips, waved him goodbye and opened the motel room door to, thankfully, let herself out. "See you around, Don."


	19. Matter of Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sadly this is the last of what there is of Keystone. Both Eagle of Masyaf and I have been fair to busy the past couple of years to have a chance to complete this. So with this last chunk of story and a summary that will be posted after I have to say Keystone is one of those massive abandoned fics. Maybe someday we'll be able to finish it. Probably not but I still hold out hope for it.

Sam was just pulling into the hotel as the blonde cougar was shuffling out of Dean’s room. An inquiry at the front desk got him the room number Dean was in and a spare key. When he realized it was the same room he’d seen the cougar leaving he couldn’t help but frown.

He unlocked the door and pushed his way into the room. “Dean, did you just get done with a hooker?” he asked, trying to keep himself from ‘bitch facing’ as Dean called it. Because he was more stunned than anything, he thought Dean and Cas had a thing. But if they had a thing why was Dean sleeping with hookers.

“Are you just playing with Cas? Because you know he’s our friend not to mention if he gets pissed he could crush you for this.” He couldn’t help it he didn’t want to see Dean get hurt or Cas either for that matter.

Dean had barely buried his face back into his mussed pillow when the door burst open again and Sam, of all people, walked in. He didn't even raise his head--didn't need to, to recognize his brother--and instead chose to roll the fuck back over to face the wall. Because of course the first words out of Sammy's mouth were accusatory, and Dean's own brain had been doing enough of that over the course of the previous night--or rather, the precious few moments of lucid sobriety which had hit him sometime between three am and right now--for both of them.

"Jesus, what are you, my mother?" he grumbled, pushing himself away from the bed. He was pleased to discover that he'd somehow managed to find and pull on his boxers sometime in the night, and got up slowly, wincing as the low warning thrum of a monstrous headache finally decided to make itself known when he got to his feet. He hovered a hand up and slapped it onto the wall for support, cursing under breath.

"When the hell'd you even get here? And... And what me and C--... And that's none of your damned business, is what it is." 

Stretching, at least, was safe, and Dean did so, partly because it felt good and partly to further infuriate his brother; he'd told Bobby he was okay, had trusted the man to keep Sammy out of the picture and now... Well, now wasn't a time when he was comfortable with his kid brother staring at him like this. He'd lost it, last night; everything had come rushing at him, too close, too real, too personal, and the dream had only cemented that. 

Dean could deal with a lot of shit, a lot, but last night's little dreaming episode had apparently opened a door he wasn't ready yet to examine too closely. And so, of course, he'd fallen back on simply forgetting. Forgetting was easy, as easy as a foxy cougar in a smoky bar, who wore too much eyeshadow and smiled too loudly at his jokes, whose long nails were just shy of uncomfortable when she'd reached for his dick. 

But it had been easy, and it hadn't been that, and Dean hadn't been forced to choose and now there was no way in hell he could explain all of that to his stupid, stupid Sammy, who had come all the way over just to make sure he was okay. Fuck.

"I'm not... She wasn't a hooker. Just some girl. Sue or Susan or something. I'm not sure," he mumbled, the realization of what he'd actually done hitting him full force in the chest for the first time since he'd closed the door to this motel room last night. And yet... And yet, he'd never promised anyone anything, he'd never promised Cas anything, even if it'd felt like he had. 

Dean blinked, one hand halfway extended towards the wall still, and managed to find his voice again. "I'm... gonna go and shower," he breathed, pushing unseeing past Sam's bulk and all but fleeing to the bathroom.

Sam frowned and turned to follow Dean towards the bathroom. “Dean, Cas is our friend. Have you seen how he looks at you? Or are you just using him?” He didn't know if he should have said what he said but he didn’t think that Dean would play with Cas like this.

But it was a possibility, and if Dean was… well Sam had a feeling that if Gabriel found out, mystery spot would look like a holiday. Not to mention what Castiel would do if he found out. After all, when Dean had decided to say yes, Castiel had given him a major beat down for it. But sexually exploiting him? He might actually smite him. 

The idea of his brother being smote for something so stupid was, well, stupid.

Of course Sam would follow him; he'd follow Dean especially now, when the last thing he wanted was to actually rehash what he'd done, swallow down the dim sense that he'd fucked up utterly by doing something as insipid and as natural as a simple late-night hookup. He almost shouted when Sam pushed through the partly-closed bathroom door.

Almost lost it then, almost screamed that he'd never promised anything, and couldn't have, because he was scared shitless that he'd turn around and do just this. It was better this way, had to be; anything was better than the thought that one day he might acknowledge what Cas actually was and be forced to choose. 

Acknowledging it was as good as giving all of their enemies a fucking huge running start; it meant that every dick between hell and heaven would know exactly how to play Dean against himself. And it meant that Dean wouldn't know how to react, wouldn't have a backup plan, wouldn't even breathe through it. It also meant that Cas would get hurt, whichever way it went; no matter how he twisted it in his mind, Dean knew, without being told, that this wasn't the sort of shit that flew under management's radar.

He figured that alcohol had loosened his brain enough to recognize that he couldn't stomach the thought, or the memories, of Castiel going native because of him. That V.I.P. Angel Club card simply had to remain in Cas' oversized and possibly grubby pockets. It had to.

"You know what, Sammy? Yes, I fucked up. But there was nothing else I could do, okay?" he hissed, slamming a hand against the bathroom door. "Trust me, it's better this way. And this conversation is fucking over."

The door slammed, practically in his brother's face, and Dean stared at his hand in abject disbelief for a few seconds before his body caught up to him; he'd been running himself ragged this past few weeks, and exhaustion and the hangover and the sheer enormity of what was happening hit him like a ton of bricks to the chest. He slid against the wall nearest the door and let himself sink onto the floor, raising a shaking hand to his throbbing forehead.

"Fuck. Fuck. I'm turning into a girl, I swear I am," he muttered to himself, trying to remember a time when one opportunistic fumble in a dingy motel would've only made Sammy quirk an eyebrow. Clearly, things had changed, though apparently the Universe had moved without bothering to warn Dean in advance, and now it seemed he could only try to run like an idiot after it, hopelessly lost and trying to catch up.

Sam sighed and banged his head against the door. “Dean, Cas is our friend. It’s not fair to either of you if you do something like this just because you can.” He said through the door. “It’s clear he’s attached to you and stringing him along is cruel.”

Sam loitered around outside the bathroom door until Dean was finished with his shower, like a giant mother hen. All limbs and worried looks for Dean. “Dean what happened to make you run off and do something like this? Seriously I’ve seen the way you look at Cas, and the way you reacted when you thought this was all just because angels are compelled to obey orders or something.”

"Jesus, would you quit it?" Dean snapped when he eventually dragged himself out the shower and stumbled back into the motel room, dislodging Sam in the process. He padded barefoot over to the bed and all but threw himself back onto it, wrapped loosely in a towel and pissed off--mostly at himself--beyond measure. "I'm not... This isn't about Cas, alright? I... I just..."

He struggled for words for a moment, unwilling to admit to himself that he desperately wanted to play into Sammy's hand, to play the game where he painted his toenails and shared his feelings with his brother and had this conversation like an adult. "It's... complicated," he finished lamely, pushing himself away from the pillow that still smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and booze and perfume, sprawling back onto the nearly untouched side of the bed.

There was a long pause, which Dean used to more or less collect himself; he was still dripping wet from the shower, yet the scent and memory of the previous night simply wouldn't leave him. "I... This just happened, okay? And it's not like we're angel-married or attached at the fucking hip or anything. Shit."

Except maybe Dean was, a bit, attached; that goddamned dream wouldn't have hurt as much as it did if he hadn't been, that was for damn sure. He wasn't certain about Cas though. Part of him firmly believed the recent developments fell firmly into the category of pie and french fries and booze for the angel; something to try, something more or less real and very raw to reach out for in a not-very-subtle way to try and distance himself from his dick brothers, maybe.

It made more sense to think of it this way, at least, and he should just have left it at that weeks ago, before all this business with Raphael and Azrael and all-those-other-els apparently turned Dean's spine to soft mush and caused him to spontaneously grow a pair of ovaries.

"Cas is a big boy, Sam, a hell of a lot older than you and me both. Let's not make this into something it isn't, okay?" Dean grumbled at his brother, swallowing down the rest of the sentence, the words he wasn't yet prepared to say. 'And besides we all knew I'd ruin this whole thing eventually, right?'

Sam sighed and really wanted to shake Dean. Instead he sent up a little apologetic prayer to Castiel. “From what I’ve seen you two are basically attached at the hip, or near the hip, Dean.” He said with a huff. “Just because you’re so emotionally stunted you can’t see that the guy has nothing but eyes for you, Dean. So if you’re just leading him on-”

He really wanted say more but the familiar rush of air that followed an angel arriving silenced him. “It’s alright, Sam. I am perfectly content with being….used by Dean. It’s not as though there have been any promises made on either side of this. And it’s clear that Dean does not expect either of us to be monogamous.” The angel shrugged and looked around the room, that shell of Angel of the Lord back.

The one he hid behind when he was bottling down his new emotions. “It’s not like any relationship he and I could have would last very long, from my perspective of things.”

Dean, to his credit, didn't even flinch when Castiel decided to show himself, right in the middle of Sam's rant about fidelity. To be fair, he'd mostly expected as much, expected his luck to be exactly null, expected this goddamn discussion to draw on way past uncomfortable and straight out the other side again.

What he hadn't expected was for Cas to actually call him out on his habit of seeking quick and easy comfort wherever he could find it. Some dim part of himself registered that Cas sounded distant where he'd expected righteous fury, but it was easily drowned out by the rushing of his blood in his ears. Because if it was easy to dismiss this whole thing--there was no other word for it that Dean was prepared to acknowledge for now--between them when Castiel was a sort of vague memory or distant thought, it was markedly harder to do so when the angel was standing right there, looking as stiff and awkward as he'd first appeared to Dean.

That sense of distance hurt a hell of a lot more than it should've, and Dean knew then he was as good as lost.

"You know what?" he spat, shoving himself off the bed and raffling through the duffel bag he'd thrown against it earlier for a clean pair of jeans. "Fuck this." Dean wrestled himself quickly into them, then all but shoved his head through the nearest t-shirt. "And fuck you," he shot at Castiel as he stalked towards the door. "I've got another freaking apocalypse on my goddamn hands because you couldn't keep your heavenly sisterhood of loose screws in check. You're fucking right, okay? I didn't promise you shit, I fucked some chick from the bar last night and to be honest it wasn't particularly awesome and you can both fall into each other's arms and freakin' spend the rest of your days braiding each other's hair for all I care."

He opened the door violently, still glaring daggers at Sam, because he could not meet Castiel's eyes just now. "I don't need this," he muttered scaldingly, before turning away and stepping outside.

He went exactly six inches past the doorframe though, because Crowley was already standing there, looking smug and smiling ever so slightly at him. 

The demon wriggled his fingers. "Trouble in paradise, boys?"

"Of course. Of course," Dean hissed under his breath, slamming the door closed into Crowley's face. He turned around again, started for his duffel and the colt, and nearly walked straight into Crowley again. "Really? Really? This isn't a good day for your shit."

"Trust me, you great big ape, this is one of those life-defining moments where you really want to listen to what little old me has to say. Like that gun you love so much? Remember that? Remember who fucking gave it to you?" Crowley shot back, voice rising tremulously until he seemed to catch himself and coughed, adjusting the straight black tie around his neck. "And you. I'm not sure what to call you anymore. Cassie, Clarence, little bluebird that could. I have news you'll want to hear."

The demon smiled and turned his back on Dean, totally unconcerned, to shoot Castiel an expectant look. "About your darling little brother, in fact. The annoying, red-headed one who's been making my life a bloody living hell since he sauntered downstairs and executed his little 'merger'," he continued, sliding one hand daintily into his pocket. "Remember him? The one who said he had business in hell? Your stupid feathery kin has been raising hellhounds, commandeering my people and bloody well usurping me!"

Castiel didn’t even blink as Dean threw his fit and got ready to storm out of the hotel. He had weathered worse than this. He’d known that Dean wasn’t the type to stay with one partner for very long. He’d hoped Dean wouldn’t lose interest in him for a while but there was nothing he could do about it now. So he would ignore the pain that was purely emotional and related to this and let Dean be.

The angel bristled when Crowley appeared; he flexed his grace threateningly when Crowley addressed Dean. “You know my name Crowley.” He said coldly debating on simply killing the demon for the trouble he’d caused in the past. “You have some nerve showing yourself to me after all you have done.”

But the demon simply smirked and railed on about Azrael and some sort of merger in hell, and hellhounds. Castiel stared for a long moment completely perplexed by it. “What?” it wasn't very articulate but that was all he could manage.

“Have you not been listening? Your great feathery asshole of a brother has taken over hell. He’s been calling himself Samael down there, on top of it all he’s killed my favorite hellhound and come up with new ones. Bigger, smarter, meaner ones. Which are actually quite genius, but the fact an Archangel is running hell is the part you need to worry about.” Crowley said with a frown looking around the room.

Castiel flinched. “Azrael has taken over hell? He’s been working against the host along?” It was unfathomable. He couldn’t keep himself from broadcasting his panic to the host, his startled outrage at the thought. Waveringly, his voice echoed through the host and those of his siblings closest enough to him responded, their voices twisting up into an angry chorus. 

There was a tense moment of silence following Crowley's revelation, and Dean couldn't help but feel guilty as sin when he saw the way Castiel stood rooted in place; he still had no idea what to call this thing they'd had going between them, but he was fairly sure he'd managed to catch sight of disappointment, or a hint of sadness, in Castiel's face as he'd turned away towards the door.

And now the angel just looked shell-shocked, or as shocked as he ever really looked; Dean was still struggling to read the micro-expressions and twitching eyebrows, but he was fairly sure this wasn't just another I-glare-because-I-care moment. 

Sammy, at his side, thankfully chose this moment to stop being a damn girl and focus instead on the more pressing matter of a demon in their hotel room. "Bigger, meaner hellhounds?" he asked, incredulous, sharing a quietly apprehensive look with Dean. "And Azrael has just let you walk out of there, unsupervised, just like that? Because we've got our own ways of keeping hidden from crazy archangels but it didn't seem to make a bit of difference to him the last time he popped up out of nowhere..."

Sam trailed off just as a breathy curse left Dean's lips. "Nice. Souped-up hellhounds on our tails. Can't wait."

"And if Azrael can find us anytime he likes..." Sam added, but Dean was barely hearing him.

He was staring at the leftover bits of ash the woman had carelessly flicked into a discarded glass on the nightstand. It all seemed so fucking stupid and unimportant now, his little panic at feeling the ground slip out from underneath him because he couldn't quite shake Castiel from his mind suddenly taking a backseat to the fact that Azrael, whom Cas had already admitted was vastly more powerful than he was, might now decide to come after them.

And the discussion in the car now seemed to make perfect sense. Whatever the archangel's little game plan had been, it had nearly severed their ties with Cas. He wasn't certain, in the long run, what they could all accomplish against Azrael, but they certainly stood a much better chance of it if they stuck together. 

Even if it meant Dean now had to face another conversation, this one maybe long overdue and a hell of a lot more personal than he would like. 

Because now, with Raphael gone and Azrael apparently having access to all of hell's resources, they really were knee-deep in this clusterfuck of a showdown, and Dean had no idea just who it was that Azrael was planning on taking down.

"Shit," he muttered unintelligently as he flopped onto the bed. 

Sam seemed to echo his sentiment, glancing at him once with a tired little snort before flicking his eyes pointedly at Castiel. "So, what do we do now?"

Dean wanted badly to just shrug this all off, grunt out that they should 'get the Colt and start taking names', but it would be bravado he couldn't, right now, back, so he simply let his gaze slide to Castiel's face as well and sighed. 

“I happen to have slipped away during his last little temper tantrum. Apparently someone pissed him off royally after he killed dear Raphael.” Crowley said looking around the room. “I know for a fact there are bigger fish out there than Azrael; you just have to get on them to come and deal with him. Cassie.”

Castiel snorted and shot Crowley what could be considered a patronizing look. "So that’s why you’ve told us about this. You want someone to deal with him for you. Typical.” He was angry more that one of his brothers was sinking so low as to take over hell not that Crowley was running to him and the Winchesters for aid.

“Oh don’t be so surprised brother dear. He’s a demon; they’re all bottom feeding abominations. Though I did find the best of uses for them, if you take a lower demon and feed it into a gwyllgi spirits that roam around hell. You get something very….special.” Azrael had appeared in the doorway with a wide Cheshire grin. “You thought you escaped from me clean did you, demon? You can’t escape from me, I rule hell. And I’m going to enjoy peeling away the layers of your being for this.”

Crowley flinched and found himself trying in vain to take himself away. Azrael tutted and looked around the room. “You know I was going to save dragging those two gangly idiots back to hell for my victory lap. But now it seems you all need to die. Pity. Castiel you where actually sort of useful with you faint hope that I was just trying to help.” The archangel smirked and Castiel did something he did not expect.

There was brief flurry of moment then the two angels went hurtling out of the room via the door way. Castiel scrambled to his feet again his angel blade out and on guard. Azrael was sporting a rather surprising stab wound in his shoulder. The archangel frowned after the exchange of a few more blows before Azrael had Castiel pinned to the ground and an absent thumb of grace pinning the humans –and demon- where they stood.

“I’m going to pull your wings off, like you’re a fly Castiel.” Azrael purred with a certain look of wicked pleasure. “Zacar upaah.” It was the same incantation Raphael had used to force Azrael’s wings out when they’d fought last. Now Azrael massive iridescent black wing flaired out behind him and Castiel smaller far more fragile ones spread against the dirt.

Both Dean and Sam startled and twisted around when a third voice joined the freakshow conversation; Azrael was standing there, in all his diminutive glory, and the archangel looked about as far from pleased as it was possible to get. Whatever it did to Crowley clearly somehow kept the demon from moving, and the second Azrael turned towards Castiel--he didn't even wait to see Castiel move and both angels go tumbling away from them--Dean was running and diving for his duffel bag, trying to get to the colt.

He heard a shout of his name behind him--Sammy, stumbling towards him--and then it was like somebody or something had cut off all the nerves going to his arms and legs. He collapsed onto his knees and stayed there, whipping his head around to see that Sam, who had started following closer to the angels--and the weapons in the bag--also seemed to be rooted to the spot.

A sudden burst of something--Grace, his mind unhelpfully supplied--rolled over them both and Dean hissed in a shaky breath as Azrael's massive, iridescent wings unfolded like dark silk in front of him. 

"Shit," he muttered, hearing Sammy gasp behind him.

The goddamned duffel bag was only a few feet away, but seeing as he couldn't seem to even twitch towards it, it might as well have been across town. 

And Azrael was leaning over Cas, about ten feet from him, close enough that he could reach out and probably brush his fingers over dark feathers if he could. Raphael hadn't been able to escape this, and Dean was completely unable to do anything except shake in anger and utter panic and watch.

Stall! Stall, stall, stall, do something!

"Oh, you cross-dressing little dickbag," he shouted, straining to try and crawl forward. His hands didn't even twitch. "You've been playing us all along. Letting Cas wander around with us was just an excuse to get him out of your hair! You're freaking insane, buddy. Know what happened to the last archangel who tried to take over hell? 'Cause I certainly do. We sent him packing back down into the pit!"

“Dean, don’t he’ll kill you.” Castiel hissed out unable to tear is eyes away from Azrael. Azrael who cocked his head and looked up at Dean, amused distain is his eyes. With almost casual ease he hooked a toe under Castiel’s side and kicked him like a rag doll into the side of the motel. 

“ ‘Tried’? Oh you stupid ape, where you not listening? I did take over hell it’s all mine. The Demons all bow to me, well except for this one. Whom, I am going to make an example of for disobeying.” Azrael said sauntering over to where he’d kicked Castiel. “You can’t stop me, ape. Because I’m not trying to start the apocalypse again, I already have the might of hell to draw from and in a few days I will have all the might of heaven too. Then everything will go back to exactly as it was when God left.”

He bent down and seized Castiel by the hair and threw him away from the wall like a child would toss a toy. “The angels will be in heaven, and the demons will stay mostly locked in hell. Until that day our Father returns and gives us orders again.” 

“Metatron will never allow that, Azrael. You know it.” Castiel panted hauling himself to his knees. He palmed his angel blade and knew he only had one chance at this.

“Metatron is still asleep like the half breed fool he is. When he fully awakes I’ll have already finished.” Azrael hissed reaching out to grab Castiel by the lapels. It was the one chance Castiel needed because lurched forward and drove his blade right into Azrael’s chest. 

The archangel jerked, the lights around them flickering and he backhanded Castiel right into a nearby minivan. He reached down and pulled the blade from his chest and frowned. There was blood but what did a bleeding vessel do to an angel? The part that made him frown was the preternatural light that was also oozing out of the wound. “You’re all juiced up, Castiel. Been leaching prayers from your little pets?” He asked flipping the blade in his hand.

“Do they even know that they’re super charging you when they pray to you? Have you explained about that?” Azrael tilted his head and looked over at Dean and Sam. “I didn’t think so.” He reached out and grabbed a hold of Castiel’s right wing and hauled him off the crushed minivan by it. 

After a moment of thought the diminutive archangel drove Castiel’s own angel blade into the joint of his wing and pinned it to the ground with it. And Castiel, stubborn, brave Castiel clenched his jaw and did not scream. He remained silent even as Azrael pinned his other wing down in much the same way. Azrael’s iridescent wings flared and twitched as he bent down low and ran his hand almost gently over the upper part of Castiel’s wing.

He tilted his head and looked directly at Dean. Before burying his hand in the sooty feathers, a moment later there was a gut twisting crunch of bone breaking. Still Castiel didn’t scream, though the muscles in his jaw where clenched. But when Azrael grabbed one half of the broken bone and pulled up twisting slightly so it erupted through skin he did, and the lights flickered, windows shattered as Castiel screamed with his true voice.

Dean watched, powerless, as Castiel got knocked around like a broken rag doll, thrown against walls and finally jerked roughly aside and pushed into a car, where he left a surprisingly massive indentation in the side panel. His mind was rushing through half a dozen scenarios to try and stop this, to do something before Azrael went murder spree on Cas, as he'd done when he'd fought Raphael. 

There was no way in hell he was going to sit back and watch Cas get killed by an archangel--again--but each and every single plan required him not to be sitting on his ass in the sidelines because he couldn't move. 

He almost cheered when Cas whirled around and shoved his angel blade straight into Azrael's chest, but his relief was short lived because all it did was make the short little bitch shudder and the lights flicker. He was listening though, and the surprise must have shown on his face when Azrael explained about the praying because the archangel turned back towards Castiel with a smug little smile. And when Azrael finally--and easily--gained the upper hand and bore Castiel to the ground, pinning him down with both Cas' and his own angel blades and Cas didn't so much as gasp or make a sound, Dean did.

It was a choked, anguished cry, and it was still ringing in his ears when Castiel finally did scream, though by that time there was no way in hell Dean could even hear himself over the rising storm of Castiel's voice. He'd heard the angel grunt and hiss when he'd fought, before, maybe a handful of times. And he'd wriggled all sorts of sounds out of him, of course, but this was unbearable, and Dean wished he could shut off the sound and the grisly image of Cas laying there, helpless, one wing twisted and torn and bloody. This was madness; he'd seen Castiel hurt before, he'd seen the angel bloodied and exhausted and nearly powerless. He'd seen Cas explode when Michael had snapped his fingers.

But now he was seeing it happen, in freaking slow-motion because Azrael was taking his damn sweet time, and God help him, but Dean had heard bones breaking before, in endless loops for forty years, but he'd never thought he'd have to stand by and listen as Castiel's bones snapped. 

Dean closed his eyes, shook his head and was about to call out to Azrael again--anything to distract the bastard--when he glanced at his brother and found Sam staring intently at the broken glass at his feet, lips moving silently, a big, creased frown of concentration on his forehead.

It took a few seconds to put two and two together, but when he did he almost smiled through his panic. "What the hell..." he muttered under his breath, turning away from the sight of Castiel's mangled wing--because he could not stomach the sight of it and if this didn't work they were fresh out of options--to focus instead on the angel's face, hoping Cas would understand and hold on, stall as best he could.

His voice was barely a whisper, but he threw every ounce of sincere faith he could into it, even if the words were probably not ideal for a damn prayer. "Oh, Gabriel, mightiest of annoying tricksters and winged dicks, if it'd please you to answer this friggin' prayer and get thy surprisingly powerful ass down here, your idiot gender-confused brother is kicking twelve kinds of shit out of Cas and if you don't hurry I think he's probably gonna kill him," he hissed, choking on the last few words then repeating the state they were in and the address of the motel like a mantra.

Azrael waited with all the patience of an ageless being for Castiel’s voice to fall silent before moving to the other wing and repeating the process. Castiel went completely limp against the ground, his wings twisted masses on the ground with him. Azrael absently dusted himself off, his own massive wings twitching to fold neatly around him.

The archangel looked around then seemed to spot Dean and Sam on accident. He bent down and pulled Castiel’s head up and made him look at the Winchesters. “I want you to watch this, Castiel. This is what every piece on the board should have done to these two years ago,” he said with cruel amusement. “Now you get to watch while I pull your favorite pets apart.”

Azrael got maybe two steps closer to them before he went hurtling through the air to land in an untidy heap on a sedan. “That is more than enough of that,” Gabriel said frowning. He’d used his grace to fling the lesser archangel out of the way as he appeared. Whatever spell Azrael had cast seemed to affect Gabriel as well, because the moment after he arrived, his wings unfurled around him.

If Azrael’s wings were massive, Gabriel’s were gargantuan. Where Azrael’s wings shared their general shape with a corvid’s wings, and Castiel’s a hawk’s, Gabriel’s were the heavy rounded shape of an owl’s. They had the heavy fluffy down look of owl wings as well, their coloration and patterning similar to a snowy owl, but pearly pink white with gold markings. Gabriel seemed nonplused that his wings were out.

Azrael picked himself up and flared his wings out threateningly. “Gabriel, so very nice to see you. Unfortunately, now that you’ve interrupted I simply must be going. But I’d like you meet some of my newest pets,” the angel said, bringing two fingers to his lips and whistling sharply. The baying that followed made the score of hellhounds that had come after the Winchesters sound tiny. With a little mocking bow Azrael vanished with Crowley in toe.

Another jarring, sickening crack interrupted Dean's fervent mumbling and he looked up sharply to find Azrael standing up and brushing gravel from his suit, Castiel a mangled heap of broken wings at his feet. He caught Azrael's eyes and sneered. "Fuck you..." 

Sammy's voice rose behind him, just a warning call of Dean's name but Dean ignored him for now, because Azrael was bending down to Cas again, forcing his head up and turning him to face Dean's way. He held Castiel's gaze for a long moment, then turned back to Azrael and continued. 

"Fuck you, you sick, twisted piece of shit. I swear to your asshole of a father, if you kill me, I'm heading straight downstairs to find you, and if I have to slice my way through all of hell's two-bit players to find and gut your ass, I'll gleefully do it," he hissed as Azrael stepped towards them, raising his head as best he could to meet the bastard head on.

He needn't have bothered; the archangel had barely stepped towards them before the familiar fluttering of wings resounded around them and Azrael went hurtling away into another car. Dean twisted to stare at his left and saw Gabriel standing there; for a second, he seemed to be just the usual, dickish asshole they knew, and then the same strange, multi-dimensional unfurling that made unpleasant things happen to Dean's gut seemed to waver around the air on either side of him and Gabriel was suddenly standing in the middle of what Dean could only describe as an airplane-wide wingspan.

He heard Sam's sharp intake of breath, registered the whistling, Azrael's cowardly departure and then he was free, stumbling forwards as the power that had been restraining him suddenly left. He caught himself one-handed before he could fall flat on his face and he was scrabbling to his feet, boots slipping on gravel as he hurtled over the broken window and slip-slid to Castiel's side.

"Thank God for villains and their crappy monologue," Sam intoned as he followed, stopping near Gabriel's side and ducking to step past one of his gigantic wings. 

The baying of the hellhounds rose just as Dean reached Castiel and he shuddered, struggling to ignore the way his heart dropped somewhere in the general vicinity of his stomach. He extended a hand and pressed lightly down on the unbroken, whole side of one of Castiel's wings. "Cas? Cas, I'm gonna have to take these out, okay?" he mumbled, raising his other hand to grab one of the angel blades, steadying the wing. "Gabriel, can you get us out of here?"

"Or get rid of these--" Sam was interrupted by a loud howl which sounded frighteningly close. "... Jesus. Dean, we got to go."

"Shut the hell up, Sammy! I know." Dean braced his weight against the healthy portion of wing, tightened his hand around the blade and pulled, hard, and the blade came sliding out with a disgusting meaty sound which made him choke out a garbled series of, "Fuck. Sorry, Cas, sorry." He didn't--couldn't--wait, couldn't waste any time trying to notice how fucking watery his eyes were, how both of his hands were now shaking as he reached for the other wing and the other blade. 

This one actually fought him for a second, and when he finally managed to dislodge it he threw it to the ground in disgust and hovered there, hands itching to pull Castiel up and away from the ground but uncertain whether he should try to move him. Sammy's hand landed on his shoulder and squeezed.

"You can have your little moment later, man. Seriously." His voice was soft though, relieved, and Dean nodded, settled for dropping a trembling hand down to curl fingers around the back of Castiel's neck. 

Castiel shuddered and made a weak sound but didn’t seem inclined to move other than a few weak twitches of his wings. He hurt, it had hurt less when he died, or when Alastair had sliced into his wing as he pulled Dean from hell. Now he was in agony all over again because Dean was wrenching the blades from his wings.

Gabriel peered at Sam then turned to look around the parking lot. For the moment the hell hounds Azrael had summoned where staying their distance. He had to give the lesser archangel credit these where not the average hell hound. They were roughly the size of a draft horse, looked less like they’d been frankenstiened together and more like something had created them. The handy work of an angel on a beast of hell. They were not as invisible as normal hounds either, massive shadows oozed where they stood giving some outline to them.

But even a half dozen of these superior hellhounds was nothing for him a snap of his fingers sent them away. The moment the hellhounds where dispatched there was another rush of air and Balthazar arrived. The angel hurried to Castiel side and all but flung Dean out of the way. Even Castiel’s wings outsized the pair Balthazar sported which a dusty sort of grey with white. 

“Look what you’ve done, you ape. Every time Castiel ends up hurt it’s because of you, every time he ends up betrayed it’s because of you and your foolish demands.” He hissed spreading a wing protectively over his injured brother the bright white markings on it catching the light. 

Gabriel shook his head and gestured to Sam and Dean. “You two tell me everything that Azrael said and did, don’t leave anything out. Balthazar will take care of Castiel don’t worry about him.” The archangel carefully folded his wings and fussed for a moment as their long primaries drug the ground.

Dean breathed out a sigh of relief when Gabriel raised his hand and the awful, sickening howling stopped; for a brief moment he'd glimpsed shapes in the darkness, bigger than what he'd seen in those last few hours when he'd been skirting the edges, when his deal had almost been up and he could see beyond what was there and down into the pit. The hell hounds, as he remembered them--and God, did he not want to remember them--had been disgusting and falling apart, but much smaller than whatever the hell Azrael had sent after them.

For once he was grateful for Gabriel's little snap of fingers.

Sam breathed out a heartfelt, "Thanks for that."

But for Dean, the relief didn't last long. As soon as the hounds were gone there was another shuffling of feathers and before he could even think to blink a hand was shoving at him, pushing him away from Castiel's side. He had to shuffle backwards awkwardly or else risk falling flat on his ass. He took three quick steps back, regained his footing and stared down in shock at Balthazar, of all people.

And the angel's words cut him to the core, sank deep in that place he'd tried to bury in the smell of cheap perfume and stale cigarette smoke and twisted. What came up was a rising bile of anger and hurt.

"What I've done?" he exploded, glaring down at Balthazar, trying to ignore the way one of his smaller wings curled up, as though striving to hide Castiel from him. "Oh, that's rich, coming from you. I might've not always done right by Cas, but at least I was here, you son of a bitch. You birds fly down and send us all away on some merry chase after stones, and we went. We're told we need to chase after fallen angels, and we do. Where the hell were you when your crazy-ass big brother went batshit insane?"

His own words echoed in his mind even as Sam interrupted and pulled him away. I was here. I was here and I let this happen. 

He turned away from the sight of Castiel's prone body just lying there, wings destroyed and weak, and tried to ignore how righteous, how protective, how right Balthazar looked at his side, stamping down an irrational surge of fierce jealousy. 

Sam tugged at his arm once and released him once he was satisfied Dean wasn't about to do anything else stupid, and sighed. "Crowley showed up first. Apparently to warn us that Azrael had gone rogue. He's taken over hell or something; he was pretending to be chasing this 'Samael' all along but clearly that wasn't the case. Azrael interrupted us and started tearing into Cas. Said he'd come after us next, and that after this he'd go up and take over heaven."

Dean nodded, raised a shaking hand to his face and pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose. He leaned back against the door of the nearest parked car, because if he didn't do so his legs were liable to fold out underneath him. "Said he didn't give a shit about Metatron--that's the guy who's been waking up, I think, the one whose name was on that scroll we found--and that after he was done upstairs things would be back the way they were supposed to be," he offered, hating how weak and tired his voice sounded.

Gabriel said not to leave anything out, but there was no way in hell Dean was describing what Azrael had actually done to Cas, so he stopped speaking, glaring down at the bit of pavement and gravel between his feet before looking up at to his side, back towards Castiel. 

"I fucked this one up," he continued, barely above a whisper, and he was pretty soon Gabriel couldn't even hear him. "I knew that bitch was trouble, from the start. I should've said something. Should've had the colt on me. Shouldn't have... Fuck... Shouldn't have run off the way I did."

Gabriel frowned his massive wings flexing as Dean and Sam spoke. He kept frowning and used his grace to pick at the spell Azrael had woven around them as he thought. None of the angels could hear the archangel’s voice clearly in the host. After a moment and awkward little twist Gabriel broke the spell and almost instantly tucked his wings away.

Balthazar followed suit from where he was crouching though Castiel’s wings stayed right as they were. Gabriel shook his head. “It’s got nothing to do with you, Dean-o. This has been something Azrael has been planning for a long time.” He said reaching into his flannel and pulling out a kukri. “Take a gander at this.” He said tossing it to Sam.

Meanwhile Balthazar had started tending to Castiel’s mangled wings. It was a slow process twisting the broken bone back into place and making sure it was back under the skin. Not even angel mojo could heal it only time. He did vanish for a moment and returned with bandages in hand to secure one wing before starting on the other. The entire time Castiel remained statue still and silent. 

Sam caught the knife inelegantly in one hand and fumbled it, almost dropping it straight onto his foot; he'd been staring at his brother when Gabriel had launched the thing at him. Because Dean, in turn, was outright glaring at Balthazar, and if looks could kill Sam had no doubt that the smooth-talking angel would be little more than a greasy puddle on the floor right now.

Happily, all that Dean's glaring got him seemed to be to further depress himself, so Sam ignored him for the time being. He still caught a flickering look at his face though, which told him that Dean had caught Sam's frown, noticed it, filed it away as a 'we're gonna talk later' face and was probably now deciding that 'later' would involve shutting up like a dam and taking swipes at Sam's head if he kept on trying to force words out of him.

He shrugged at his brother and looked down at the knife in his hand; it looked nothing like the knife Ruby had given him, but Sam recognized it as the same sort of thing regardless. The curving script etched along its surface seemed familiar, even if the shape of the blade didn't.

"Looks like an art student went a little unhinged on it," Dean piped in, suddenly at his side and looking, somehow, smaller than Sam remembered. 

He almost commented on it, but he figured that jokes about height wouldn't be well received right now.

"Looks like Ruby's knife, to me," he offered instead, flicking the knife around and offering it to Dean, who carefully took it from his hand.

Dean stared at it for a long moment, shoulders tensing and twitching twice at the sounds of Balthazar leaving then reappearing behind him. He was thinking, hard, about the blade he was holding, partly to force himself to ignore what was happening, how Castiel was still just lying there on the gravel and dirt of the pavement, how someone else was tending to a man--angel, creature, entity, whatever--who Dean was beginning to consider a part of his extended family.

And partly because his mind was spiralling back to that first meeting back in the barn that was, coincidentally, just a few miles north of where they were now. Spiralling back to how he'd emptied several shells straight into Castiel's chest, how he'd plunged Ruby's knife straight into his heart and the angel hadn't even twitched. 

When his brain connected the dots, he looked straight up at Gabriel and slowly, purposefully slid the knife into his belt. "Where'd you get it?" he asked about the same time as Sam opened his mouth and frowned.

"Dean...?"

"We're keeping it," Dean answered, though his eyes never left Gabriel's face. "'Cause Azrael's still out there, I freakin' swear to God--wherever the hell he is, drinking martinis while the rest of us are getting torn to shreds--that we're not getting caught with our pants down again and I'm pretty sure this thing kills angels."

Sam turned towards Gabriel again. "I thought only your own blades could kill an angel?"

Gabriel tilted his head and watched Dean closely for a moment. “Azrael’s figured out how to mass produce those for Demons,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets and coming out with a package of Twix. “They do kill angels and even injure archangels. I’m also fairly sure it’ll kill demons too.”

The diminutive archangel took a bite of his candy and seemed thoughtful. He glanced over at Balthazar and Castiel and sighed. “Go ahead and keep that, and if you hear anything out of Azrael, call right away.” He looked up at the sky and shook his head. Every angel could hear the uproar the host was in over this. “I have to go get everyone settled.” He rolled his eyes then vanished.

“Cassy, I really think you should come back to heaven to give yourself time to heal.” Balthazar was saying as Castiel stood up slowly. Castiel still hadn’t tucked his wings away though they were neatly bandaged now. 

“Balthazar, I will heal just the same here, and will not leave Sam and Dean alone to face whatever Azrael throws at them,” was all the injured angel said and Balthazar vanished with a rustle of air, leaving Castiel standing uncertainly off away from Sam and Dean, trying in vain to keep his wings from trembling in pain. 

It was a long time before Dean turned back towards Castiel; he nodded at Gabriel when the archangel poofed out of existence, because the smarmy bastard had just saved Castiel's ass and he supposed a nod wasn't too much warming up, all things considered. Sam, ridiculous and girly as he was, offered a wide, heartfelt smile and a nod of his own. 

Balthazar's disappearance didn't get much warmth though, and Dean continued ignoring him--childishly, he was aware--until he was gone, at which point he had no more excuses and little reason to stall.

Sam made the situation even worse--or better, Dean wasn't sure yet--by fixing Castiel with a look so full of freaking acceptance and gratefulness Dean thought he might've puked, if not for the fact that he wasn't sure exactly what his own face was doing in that moment.

"I'm gonna go and get our stuff packed up into the Impala," Sam said, shuffling back over the broken glass and into the hotel room again. "Before, you know, somebody calls the cops on us."

"Yeah," Dean offered as Sam climbed back inside. "Saw a motel just a few miles back. Guess it'll do for now."

And Sam ducked his head and disappeared and that was that. Aside from one curious lady who stuck her head straight back into her room when Dean glanced up at the window of one of the rooms on the second floor, they were alone in the parking lot. And Cas was standing, looking much worse for wear, though Dean had to grudgingly admit that Balthazar had done a much better job of patching him up than Dean could have had any hope to do.

Broken bones and dislocated shoulders and knife gouges and bullets lodged into flesh he could deal with. But ripped out bones in heavenly limbs which were probably made out of Grace or stardust or butterfly tears or whatever the hell? Those, Dean had no idea how to even start to treat.

Not to mention the fact that he'd been stupidly helpless and sick with worry the minute he'd reached Castiel's side.

"I, um... Jesus effin' Christ, Cas, will you be okay?" he essayed awkwardly, painfully aware of the five or so feet which separated him from the angel. The strange sense that he'd failed somehow was multiplied by the fact that Castiel had chosen to stay here, even if walking around with however many pounds of injured wings stuck to his back must've been uncomfortable.

Probably painful as hell, really, and Dean didn't use the term lightly.

Someday soon Dean was really going to have to try and research a way to break out of annoying dick angels' grasps; he'd lost count of how many times Zachariah had pulled the family card on him while he'd simply stood there and watched it all happen. He still wasn't sure he was quite ready to face the fact that seeing Sammy writhe in pain from being slowly choked and seeing Cas getting his wings mutilated twisted his gut in disturbingly similar ways, but the thought and the sight of the bandages crisscrossing Castiel's dark wings still made him inch closer.

“I will survive. It is not as bad as it appears to be.” Castiel said as he slowly, so very slowly, folded his wings against his back. “We should leave soon. I would rather not attempt to face Azrael’s newest creation while injured.” He moved to stand beside the Impala, suddenly unsure.

“You do want me to stay right, Dean?” he asked softly. Before this he would have known it was okay for him to stay, that Dean wanted him around. But now he was unsure because clearly there was no attachment there other than the purely physical. Castiel knew how Dean tended to treat his conquests. He bedded them then never wanted to see them again. 

He supposed that it was only because he kept returning to Dean’s side that their liaison had continued this long. Perhaps he should simply leave and wait for Dean to call him, to want him again. 

"Not as bad as... Jesus, Cas, you look like you went through a meat grinder and I'm being generous here," Dean muttered in answer, trying and failing not to stare at the awkward way Castiel brought his wings in, at the faint shudder in his shoulders when the damned things finally seemed to settle against his back. 

He knew if Sammy hadn't been there he would've been fussing like a mother hen, navigating closer because he figured Cas would probably let him, and gently guide him closer to the Impala with a hand at his elbow, mindful of the very alien and obviously wounded appendages that draped over Castiel's shoulders and almost brushed the floor.

As it was, he could only watch, keeping his distance out of some dim sense of appearances, until Sam cleared his throat noisily. The sound startled him, and Dean watched his brother pointedly walk towards the car, make a beeline for the goddamned thing and actually open the door and slide into the front seat with a pointed look back at him.

When Dean had regained his senses he realized Castiel had spoken again, something about staying, and it took a few seconds to understand that Cas sounded unsure, probably because of what he'd done the night before. He shook off the sudden urge to just reach out and shake the angel, because clearly Cas was injured, but freaking hell, how dim and stupid could one eons-old creature be?

But Cas had promised, hadn't he, that he wouldn't spy on Dean's thoughts anymore. He didn't have the strength to explain about avoidance tactics and being a coward right then, especially not with Castiel injured because he'd stood between the Winchesters and his family, as twisted as it could be at times. So Dean just shook his head and huffed, a cross between a snort and a cough leaving his lips. 

It was a frustrated sort of sound, and God, he wished he could find the balls to actually say something intelligent instead of all this grunting that kept wanting to escape him whenever he was confronted with the fact of people he fucking cared about getting beaten up by the universe because he'd screwed up.

He shuffled forwards and finally allowed himself to tug at Castiel's elbow, as though Sammy wasn't right there in the passenger's seat, his big, open face staring back at him all accepting and trusting.

"Of course I want you here, dumbass. For fuck's sake, Cas, I--" He caught himself just in time, closing his eyes against the sight of Castiel's neck, too freaking close for comfort but still somehow not close enough. His fingers tightened around loose fabric, bunching up the familiar material of trench coat and suit jacket over Castiel's arm. "We're just gonna detour for a bit. Find a hotel, a nice one, and you're gonna rest while we try to dig ourselves out of this pit, all right?"

'And hopefully the hotel room will be warded against inquisitive and grabby angels in ridiculously tight shirts with stupid fucking exotic accents.' 

This last part, of course, Dean didn't say out loud. He simply nodded at Cas, reached down and opened the door to the Impala's back seat. Sam had had the right idea, at least; it wasn't much back there, but at least Castiel would have more room in the back, for however long it took to reach their next pitstop in this mad, chaotic race towards another clusterfuck of impending, biblical bullshit.

Castiel flinched slightly when Dean spoke and looked down. “Of course, Dean. My mistake,” he said softly before sliding into the back seat stiffly. He spread his wings over the back seat carefully, wincing as he did so. He was unused to constant pain such as this and even more with the sudden facing emotional pain.

Once in the back seat he closed his eyes and fell back onto the host. It might have looked like he was resting but he was even more aware of things going on around him than he was with his eyes open. But he didn’t want to face Dean and the ball of confusion and pain that brought. He stayed out of Dean’s mind because he didn’t want to face what he might find there.

Instead he sought out Balthazar's familiar voice and simply threaded his grace alongside it. It was a common enough action among the host, no one would think anything of it. Balthazar knew why and simply lent a metaphorical shoulder to him and urged him to come home to heaven and heal rather than linger on earth with the Winchesters.

Dean waited until Castiel had slipped past him and awkwardly situated himself on the back seat, stretching with a faint, barely-there grimace of pain that made something twist painfully in Dean's gut. Cas' eyes were closed before he'd even shut the door, and Dean just stood there for a second, wondering when this had all become so damned complicated that he couldn't now simply buck up and offer support to a wounded friend like a normal freaking human being without his brain dissolving into and endless stream of guilt and hurt.

Sammy was twisting in his seat and staring at him though, so Dean sighed, pushed away from the car and walked around to the driver's seat, sliding behind the wheel a little stiffly. 

As he started the car and they drove off, Dean turned towards his brother, who was now twisted the other way in his seat, eyes fixed on Castiel in the back, face a big, screwed up mess of concern.

"You got everything from the room, right?" Dean said, one hand gripping the wheel tight, knuckles almost white, the other one draped at his side in an unsuccessful attempt at looking relaxed.

Sam turned towards him and shot him a look so full of blame that Dean actually flinched. "Yeah, I got everything. I'm not the one who's forgetting something here."

"What?" Dean snuck a quick glance at Castiel in the rearview mirror, noting how the angel seemed to be resting, scarily still against the wide expanse of feathers and bandages. "The hell are you talking about?"

His brother huffed, pointedly ignoring him and staring at the road ahead. "Oh, I don't know. Like maybe apologizing for pulling one of the most disgusting things you've done in a damn long while?"

The car swerved, just a couple inches to the left and beyond the painted line of the pavement, and Dean cursed as he brought it back into place. "Jesus, Sam." He glanced again at Castiel, but the angel hadn't moved. "We are not talking about this here."

"Of course we aren't," Sam hissed back, disdain evident in his voice. "God forbid you actually--You know what? You're always bitching about angels having sticks jammed up their asses, Dean, but I swear sometimes you're almost worse than them." 

There was a long pause, during which Dean tried his best to ignore how disappointed Sam sounded, and he almost reached up to turn on the radio, out of spite and to try and get his stupidly perceptive brother to shut up. He didn't though, because he knew Sam was right, and the guilt was almost a physical ache at this point.

He didn't think even Zeppelin could help with that.

"When we get to the hotel, I'm booking a separate room," Sam added eventually, voice brooking no argument.

Dean nodded, staring resolutely ahead, a knot of something lodged painfully in his throat. When he spoked again his voice was soft and maybe a bit defeated. "Yeah, okay, Sam." There'd have to be a talk, Dean knew, and he'd have to actually acknowledge what he'd done, in a way that made it clear that Cas wasn't--couldn't ever be--just another random body picked up in a bar that he could bail on at the first opportunity. 

He was fucking terrified.

His answer seemed to have satisfied Sam though, because he repeated Dean's soft-spoken "Okay," before reaching up to the radio himself and flicking it on, letting the first few opening riffs of 'When the Levee Breaks' wash over them both, as a sort of stupidly appropriate acceptance of Dean's non-existent apology. 

Castiel remained silent for the rest of the drive to the next hotel. He stayed still because if he moved it hurt and he didn’t like to hurt. He also never opened his eyes because he didn’t want to see Dean. It just hurt too much. He could hear Sam’s worried thoughts about him and the seething anger at Dean for having been so stupid. 

If he was human he’d probably feel more outrage over the whole thing. But he was just numb, maybe it was shock he was in, maybe it was better this way before either of them got too attached to whatever parody of normal they had.

It only took an hour to reach the hotel, time that Dean spent glaring at the road ahead and struggling not to get lost in his own thoughts. It wasn't easy, because mostly all he could think about was how not worth it it had all been, how cheap the sex had felt, how not particularly into it he'd been. But it had been familiar and easy, and most of all it had been cold, and the woman--too old, really, to be called a chick still, though maybe cat would be appropriate if Dean was feeling even halfway up to it, which he wasn't--had known exactly what had been on the table and what hadn't been.

It had been clear, and God help him, while it'd lasted he hadn't even thought about Cas, which had been the whole point of it, really. 

Of course, it hadn't lasted, and if Dean had maybe thought ahead he might've anticipated that. 

And now, as he pulled into the hotel parking lot and Sam all but ditched his ass to nearly run over to the reception desk, he found himself alone in the car with a broken, wounded angel, a massive lump in his throat and the nagging, pulling feeling that he'd fucked up utterly. 

It wasn't a new feeling. And maybe he'd been dreading it since the first, since that first, insane night all the back in Arizona, what felt like months ago.

He sighed, curled his hands around the steering wheel once and pushed himself out of the car, turning as he slammed the driver's side door and opened the back one. "Sammy's in there getting us rooms," he said, dismayed that his voice was almost a whisper. Dean cleared his throat and tried again, one hand hovering uncertainly inside the car. "He's getting two, so you can, uh, have space if you need it."

He wasn't sure where to touch; clearly wings were a giant no-no, but that left him with little safe places to grab, and he almost choked with how stupid and difficult this all was. Finally, he settled for sliding a hand under Castiel's elbow and slowly levering him out of the car, keeping his hand there, not pulling or grabbing, hoping like hell that Cas would just see it as an offer of support if he needed it.

Sammy was still inside, so Dean twisted and awkwardly slapped a hand on the car door to slam it closed behind them. And while they waited for Sam to come back with their keys, words rose unbidden from Dean's throat. 

"Cas, I... I really hate to see you like this. You said they'll heal, right? Your wings? I should've listened before, to all your damned talk about your family. I would've, if I'd known it would come to this," he muttered, unwilling or unable to force his hand away from Castiel's elbow.

He didn't actually want to say more, didn't want to explain himself because acknowledging that he'd fucked up by doing something as 'normal' as what he'd always done before to cope with his crazy-ass life was as good as admitting that Castiel was different, meant more than Lisa or even Cassie, meant more than almost anyone. 

Somehow Sammy chose that moment to barge back out of the hotel and stalk towards them. Dean wasn't sure if he should curse or praise his brother's timing. He caught the key as it came sailing towards his face and tried not to flinch, pulling himself away from Castiel's side.

"Make sure you angel-proof the room--" Sam started before Dean nodded, interrupting with a gruff, "Yeah, yeah, I know how this song goes."

Dean waited until Sam had disappeared behind the back of the Impala, gathering duffel bags, before gingerly reaching out and taking Castiel's hand to gently deposit the hotel room key in the angel's palm. 

"So... I know you probably don't want my help right now. Room's yours if you want it. I mean, I've lost track of how many times I've bunked with Sammy before, so... Just..." The goddamn lump that had been stuck in his throat for hours seemed to unravel then, choking him, and Dean swallowed around it, closing Castiel's fingers around the key. "If you ask, like, if you need," he choked again, closed his eyes and continued. "Anything... Me or Sam'll be there, right?"

Castiel looked at the key in his hand then up at Dean. “I see no reason why I should avoid either of you.” He said turning his hand over and putting the key back into Dean’s hand. “And I don’t need keys.” He folded his wings tighter to his back and with more effort than he liked he vanished with a rush of air. 

He’d chosen to stay in Dean’s room. Simply because it was more comfortable than dealing with Sam’s pity. He wobbled as he landed in the room and had to grab a hold of a chair for balance. It wasn’t that he was low on power but it was that his wings where the conduit of his grace and using it with them injured was harder. 

And it hurt. More than it should have but he felt that displaying that he was not an invalid was worth it.

Dean barely had time to blink and Castiel was gone, the image of his damned stubborn, surly poker face practically burned into his eyelids. He was still dumbly holding onto the key when the slam of the Impala's trunk startled him and Sam was at his side, thrusting a worn duffel bag against his chest and rolling his eyes.

"Seriously? He didn't poof away, Dean. Pretty sure he can't go far right now," Sam said, plucking the thought from Dean's mind. "Just go in there and... God, I don't know. Grovel, I guess?"

"Oh, you're so funny. Really. This is my laughing face," Dean deadpanned, shooting his brother a heated glare and snatching the duffel bag away. 

He'd known this would happen eventually; it had all been too easy, considering. This had all started because he couldn't keep his goddamned dick in check, in a sleazy motel room somewhere in Arizona, drunk and too off his head to care about consequences. And apparently that was also exactly how it ended, minus the drinking part, in a hotel a bit further east and north, because he couldn't keep his stupid, goddamned emotions in check.

It was hardly a great surprise, and Dean was pretty damn sure no amount of grovelling could repair this. And the worst part, the bit which tore at him even deeper than knowing he'd screwed another lover over, was that he'd pretty much betrayed the only friend outside of Bobby and Sam that he had left.

And now Sam was staring at him like he knew all of this, his big honest forehead scrunched up again like he'd swallowed something the wrong way, and Dean couldn't stomach it, couldn't stand this a minute more.

"I'll go check up on him. Make sure he's not vomiting feathers all over the place," he mumbled, shouldering the duffel bag and forcing his way past his brother.

He didn't even realize he'd left every single fucking door on the Impala unlocked, and Sam made the rounds after he'd left, going around the car and locking the doors before shutting the trunk with a heartfelt sigh.

When Dean finally found the guts to jam his key into the door of his room for the night, a couple minutes later, he wasn't sure what he was expecting. The sight of Castiel, struggling to stay upright and leaning against a chair certainly wasn't it. He let the duffel bag fall to the floor, closed the door softly behind him and walked to Castiel's side. He fought a stupid, pointless urge to fall to his knees and apologize--Goddamn it, he wasn't even sure what for, anymore--and instead went with his gut, which told him that laying a hand on the angel's shoulder right now would be a good move.

"Batteries okay, Cas?" he asked, squeezing Castiel's shoulder slightly and offering a weak smile. "Man, I know you guys don't do sleep but..." He quirked an eyebrow and gestured vaguely at Castiel, whose face seemed more ashen and drawn than he could remember, like the angel hadn't slept or eaten in weeks and it was just now catching up to him. "Maybe you should take a breather now. Lie down and rest. Or, you know, whatever it is you guys do. Meditate. Whatever."

Castiel wanted to brush Dean’s hand off to pretend he was fine, but every instinct told him not to. So instead he closed his eyes and tried to access his grace to bolster himself. “Batteries are fine…” he said with a heavy sigh. “It’s more….difficult than that. An angel’s wings are the connection between heaven and our grace. Think of them like power lines; when the line is damaged it’s harder for them to transmit energy properly.”

“I don’t think rest will change much other than the time allowing for necessary healing.” He shifted away then carefully made his way to the further bed. “I apologize that I won’t be of much help if we wind up in a fight, Dean.” The words were a bit stilted and pained, as was the way he was holding himself and his wings as he sat on the end of the bed, his back to Dean. After a moment he unfurled his wings and spread them carefully over the bed just to try and ease the pain there.

"Right," Dean muttered back, a bit dismayed to see how quickly Cas slunk out from underneath his touch. He watched the angel shuffle his way to the bed farthest from the door and gingerly sit on the very edge of it. There was clearly a kind of message there, Dean thought, because he was pretty damn sure Cas knew he always took the bed closest to the door. So Cas had made a choice here, and Dean realized that if he really gave a crap this time he'd have to really work at it to repair it.

It was absurd, really, how much he wanted to repair it. He hadn't even tried to piece back some semblance of stability with Lisa, had simply let it slowly fall apart, and now he was inching his way carefully between the two beds, sitting on the bed opposite Castiel's but as close as physically possible to him. It still left a gaping space between them, and all he could see was Castiel's profile.

And it hurt like a physical blow to hear the next words out of the angel's mouth, stole the breath from his lungs and almost made him gasp. A few months ago he wasn't sure he would've noticed the wording. Now though, he wondered how long this sort of shit had been going on, just how long he'd treated Cas as, he'd thought, a friend, and the angel had been reacting like this. Wondered how exaggerated Azrael's claims were that he'd brought Castiel down into the dirt, simply by asking for stuff.

So Dean got up, swallowed down a bitter little pill of guilt and pride and walked around to Castiel's side, crouching down in front of him in order to actually see the angel's downturned face. "Hey, Cas, seriously man, I don't really care about how useful you'd be in a fight right now. Jesus, you're hurt. Biblically hurt, apparently and I thought..." Dean sighed, ran a hand through his short hair and gingerly dropped it on Castiel's knee while his brain screamed at him to continue.

"I thought we were gonna watch you get torn to shreds, like Raphael, and I thought... Thought we'd--I'd lose you, man. I'm just really glad you're alive and not a ch--charcoal outline in the gravel, okay?" His voice broke once and he swallowed through it, giving Castiel's knee a little squeeze before darting his hand away. "You're not a hammer, remember?" Dean added, smiling a little at the memory, of back when Castiel was still so alien and frankly scary as shit. "Not to Sam and... not to me."

Castiel looked up so he could meet Dean’s eyes, his expression lost. “Then what am I to you, Dean?” he asked, sounding confused and more than a little weary. “I thought I knew but now I’m not so sure.” He had to know the truth. He had to know if the idea that had been lurking in the back of his mind since before he’d given Dean one of his feathers was a good idea.

The angel lifted his injured wings and cupped them around Dean, bracketing him in place. Castiel knew Dean wouldn’t force his way out of the cage of wings for fear of hurting him. He didn’t want to risk Dean storming off rather than answering. The position was uncomfortable for him as the muscles in his wings were just as damaged as the bones and they shivered with the strain. 

Balthazar hadn’t been shy with the bandaging but the extended movement had caused his wounds to begin to bleed again. He could see the faintest signs of blood steeping through the bandaging. He would need to change them or mojo them clean again eventually and the angel was not sure which he’d rather.

Dean swallowed as Castiel raised his head, and any other time he might've had a few choice words to say about the angel's uncanny and completely alien habit of staring; they'd had discussions about this before, back in the day when Dean had been trying to teach Cas how to pass as human instead of freaking the hell out of just about everyone he met. It hadn't stuck, clearly, and Dean had to fight the sudden, completely ridiculous urge to fidget under that unflinching blue stare.

Someone somewhere had obviously been targeting Dean when one unsuspecting Jimmy Novak had been born some thirty-odd years ago, because those goddamned eyes should've been illegal in all fifty states, especially when they tended to pinpoint laser sharp on Dean's face. 

He fought for words for a moment, opening and closing his mouth a few times, trying to decide how one should go about blurting out that the man-shaped angel they were practically kneeling in front of was pretty much the only thing keeping them together. Apparently his silence lasted long enough to prompt Castiel to bring out the big guns, in the form of two very, painfully and visibly wounded wings sliding downwards to frame him.

Dean was pretty certain he tried for words, then, and would deny the choked half-sob, half-cough that first came out of his mouth, would excuse it as clearing his throat if he even gave a shit anymore beyond making sure Cas didn't flutter off on halfway-broken wings. 

"I, uhm... Look, I'm notoriously bad at this, okay?" he finally said, breath catching as one wing--broken, damaged, torn and probably painful as hell--fell softly against his shoulder. "You... Jesus, Cas, you freak me out," he continued, though it was barely more than a whisper at this point. "I mean, you show up, and suddenly it's not just demons and wendigos and vamps anymore. And then everything goes to shit, and I lose Sammy but you... You're still here. And I don't know why, Cas. You saw me in the pit. And I don't... I don't remember it..."

And he didn't, not clearly, despite having razor-sharp recollections of every single other day he'd spent down there. There was something a bit unfair about that, but in the grand scheme of things, it didn't seem to matter much. 

Dean took a deep breath before speaking again, blinking to chase away the memories he did have of his time in hell.

"You saw everything I did. All of it. But you stuck around and I--" He trailed off, unsure where to look--because he'd long since twitched away from Castiel's too-intense stare--and what to say. "You stuck around and people... People don't usually stick by me, okay? They all usually just either leave or die and I fucking panicked and, God, it wasn't even worth it, you know? She wasn't... I mean, fuck... She wasn't you and I couldn't..."

Dean realized he'd been babbling only when he stopped, and that's when he knew he was so lost he might as well have wandered straight back into the pit without a map; getting attached, falling for somebody else, was dangerous. That was something he'd always known. Getting attached to a supernatural creature who was tied to the Big Guy Upstairs and had a known tendency to disappear without a moment's notice was even dumber.

Apparently the stupid, grabby parts of him hadn't gotten the memo.

He was about to add more, but when he actually forced himself to look upwards, Dean finally noticed that Castiel was shaking, wings all but trembling with the strain of keeping them gently hovering over Dean's shoulders. He sighed. "I... I'm sorry, Cas. I'm sorry you got hurt and... Goddamn, I'm sorry I was a jackass."

“You don’t remember me pulling you out because even in a memory my true form could be…damaging to you.” Castiel said softly reaching out to touch Dean’s shoulder. “If you’d like I could give you my memories of it. It would not be the same but at least you would…know.” He didn’t want to share that but he would if Dean wanted them. 

He sighed and finally lowered his wings. “It’s not your fault, Dean. Even if you hadn’t done what you did, Azrael still would have shown up and I still would have done what I did.” The angel’s voice was soft. “Because time and time again it’s my brothers who are doing things like this and they keep dragging you and your brother into it.” 

Castiel carefully lifted his wings again and folded them gently over Dean’s shoulders and pulled him close. “Don’t dwell on this, it’s forgiven. It’s not as if whatever we have was ever defined as monogamous.” He gave a little shrug. “And I did not know it would bother me as much as it does.”

Dean let Castiel's voice flow over him, feeling a bit ridiculous because he'd never thought that his stupid, get-under-your-skin gravel-rough voice could ever sound so much like a freaking blessing. But it was, right now, and that at least he could admit to himself; it meant that he hadn't pushed hard enough to make make Cas flutter off. To make him run his angelic ass away again. He shook his head 'no' at the casual invitation to share in memories then nodded numbly and gave a weak, stilted chuckle when Castiel mentioned his dick brothers.

And then the wings were back, drifting close over him, close enough that he could feel faint, buzzing warmth against his shoulders and back, and Dean figured he really didn't need any memories more precise than those he already had. Wings were all he remembered, wings and light and getting his ass more or less hi-jacked out of the pit, but it was enough. 

It also would've been enough now--and Dean could've pulled away and started freaking out properly about the blood he could now see seeping into the pale bandages wrapped around the joints and long curves of Castiel's wings--if Cas hadn't gone and spelled it out clear and painful in a voice that sounded like he was trying for unaffected. 

Defining this. Defining it as 'monogamous' had been exactly what Dean hadn't wanted or even thought to do when he'd first started going a little skin-mad for a friggin' Angel of the Lord. It had been absurd to think it then, and it was absurd now, but somehow hearing Castiel say it drove the point home that what he really didn't want was to define this thing they were doing as something not-monogamous at all. 

Because that implied cheap one-night stand, and God knew Cas was anything but that.

It also implied that maybe he was okay with Cas heading off on his free time for his own brand of hunting in bars or wherever the hell the angel would want to pick people up. Dean's fingers tightened over one of Castiel's thighs, where one hand had snuck while he apparently hadn't been paying attention to it.

"Yeah, well," he started, shifting forward a bit because Cas' wings at his back were pushing him closer towards the firm wall of heat that was the angel. "It bothers me too. I want--Cas, I'm notoriously shit at the monogamy thing, you know that. I've bailed on pretty much everyone I've ever had," he continued, practically aiming the words at Castiel's chest, because he was still crumpled to the floor between the angel's knees, pressed closer against him in a way that didn't feel as terrifying as it should've had.

Dean rolled with it, pushing both hands past the angel's hips to curl over the small of his back, and though the embrace was sort of chaste--he was still pressed nearly chest to hip against Castiel's front, so chaste maybe wasn't exactly accurate--he still felt that sudden thrum of something more. He was blanketed on all sides--wings against his shoulders and back, somewhat bony knees and firm thighs pressed into his sides--and he felt like he just wanted to sink deeper into this and never let go. 

"And I'm not gonna apologize again because you told me to drop it, so okay, but if you want... If you want to define it, like, right now, we could do that," he breathed, letting his forehead droop closer until he was more or less resting against Castiel's chest. "If I haven't fucked it up beyond recognition--and I wouldn't use the term 'monogamous', because, dude, who speaks like that?--maybe I'd like to define it and stop blundering around in the dark wondering what's allowed and whether I'm gonna wake up smote."

After a short pause, because he was aware none of what he'd said probably made any sense to Castiel, Dean released a huffy, annoyed sigh and added, "I mean, I'm a selfish hypocrite, Cas, and I just don't want you to be... eating pie with anybody else. You get me?"

Castiel let out a huff of a laugh and threaded his arms around Dean as well. “Doubt I could ever truly smite you at this point, Dean,” he murmured, resting his head against Dean’s shoulder. “I have wanted to in the past but have yet to be able to.”

His wings twitched against Dean’s back and he shook his head. “There has never been anyone else I have wanted to… eat pie with, Dean,” he admitted with a sigh, fisting his hands in Dean’s shirt. “But if you find that your…needs require someone else…” The angel shifted. “I won’t like it but I will not force you to abstain from that if you don’t want to.”

He didn’t like even saying it but he didn’t want to hold onto Dean too tightly only to end up losing him. So he would allow for that freedom if only to be able to have Dean that much longer. It wasn’t like Dean wasn’t mortal and he was not. So he would try to be understanding and to give Dean everything he needed.

Castiel's admission loosened something in Dean's chest, as though whatever fake phantom from Zachariah's pretend future finally dissolved. It wasn't much, and he was pretty damned sure he'd never really let go of the mental image and the memories, but at least now he knew this wasn't The Thing, the thing that sent Cas off on a sort of endless bender of sex, drugs and probably dubiously bearable music. 

Still, even though the strange, completely unnatural feel of Castiel's wings against his shoulder increased as the embrace was returned, Dean shook his head. "Seriously, Cas, I really don't... need you to be okay with me when I fuck up. Get angry, get pissed, throw shit at me, or something. Because that's what we do. Humans, I mean. I'm not supposed to get a free pass here, man. And it's not..."

Dean stopped, swallowed again and acknowledged this, acknowledged everything, how shitty he'd felt while bedding some unknown chick, how ill-timed it had been because Dean hadn't gone for bar-flies in months and how he could recognize it now for what it had been; running away.

He wasn't running now. Not when he had this, too stupidly good to be true and obviously unconscious of it. Maybe one day Cas would wake up and smell the roses, figure out that Dean wasn't the righteous man after all. And God, it would hurt, probably as much as watching Sammy walk away with that demon bitch, but until then Dean could do this, if he just ignored the nagging twitches that told him that facing this was maybe an even stupider idea than squaring off against the devil.

"It's not gonna happen again," he finally added, slumping boneless against Castiel. Whoever had deemed these goddamned chick-flick moments gay--probably himself, if he was being honest, but now was a shitty time for introspection of that kind--clearly had no idea how fucking draining they were. "Not if you don't want it to."

He revelled in the blessed, thought-free moment as long as he could, until his brain caught on with Cas' previous sentence and his mouth ran away with him, again, damn it. "And, really? So there was smiting in my future at some point? Wasn't sure you had it in you, Cas," he said, grinning cheekily but unseen, his face still buried--a bit shamefully, he had to admit--in Castiel's chest. 

It was warm there, and smelled sort of like antique dry-cleaning and cheap hotel soap. Mind-boggling, considering what Castiel's trench coat and suit had seen over the previous year and a half. Still, he managed a cheeky pinch to Castiel's side, fingers tightening over approximately zero freaking body fat as he playfully pulled at the skin just over the swell of the angel's ass, and goddamn if the fact that he had access to it at all wasn't just a miracle in and of itself.

The angel huffed and and gave slight tug, pulling Dean onto the bed with him. Castiel scooted back so they could curl up close to each other. “I just want…you in whatever capacity you're willing to allow me to have you, Dean,” he muttered, shifting his wings so neither of them were putting any weight on them.

He kept his other wing draped over Dean because it wasn’t hurting like that, sort of propped up by both of their bodies. “I have on several occasions debated on smiting you, but somehow you always do something to change my mind.” He slid his fingers over Dean’s side. “Never in all of the time I’ve existed did I ever think I would know someone like you. I used to think humans were simple and easily understood. You continue to prove me wrong….I sort of enjoy that.” 

Chuckling, he curled closer to Dean and closed his eyes. Not because he intended on sleeping but because he was spreading his other senses over Dean around the room. That wasn’t as much of a strain as transporting into the room had been. 

Dean followed, pulled forward by the warm weight of feathers and wings against his back, until he was more or less sprawled on top of Castiel. It was vaguely uncomfortable for all of three seconds, while he navigated limbs and knees and figured out how to slot his elbows on either side of the angel's chest. The rest of the awkward, uncomfortable feeling came from the realization that he'd, somehow, gotten forgiveness out of this deal, again.

And he really should've been pulling away to take a careful look at those bandages, but Cas wasn't playing fair, reclining on the damn bed like a glorified, slightly pointy but very warm cushion. Dean registered Castiel's words only as he shifted and slumped carefully against the now painfully familiar warmth of angel draped underneath him, and for a second he was glad of the relative darkness of the room, because despite the truly mad concept of Castiel admitting to being willing to settle for just about anything Dean could throw at me, the turn of phrase still somehow managed to bring forth mental images of their situation being reversed.

It wasn't something he was one hundred percent comfortable admitting to himself, but the thought of this--only in reverse, with Castiel hovering above him, taking whatever the hell Dean would be willing to 'give'--somehow made anxious and ecstatic butterflies take residence in his gut.

It was only a damn blessing that Cas probably wouldn't notice the completely ridiculous blush Dean was pretty certain was creeping up the back of his neck.

"M'glad I keep you on your toes, Cas," he muttered instead of dwelling on the feeling, carefully inching aside so he could rest on the bed instead of dumping his weight on the angel. "'Cause I would really hate to get smote, after all the trouble we've been going through trying to stay alive." 

He settled for draping himself carefully along Castiel's side, avoiding the outstretched wing nearest to him as much as possible, mindful of accidentally slamming an elbow all up against that very wounded, angel flesh. The absolute last thing he wanted was to ruin this, Castiel alive and warm against him and an entire night's worth of probable rest ahead of him.

There was comfort here, obviously more solid and a hell of a lot more stable than he was maybe ready to admit; even wounded and in pain, Cas was still here, and goddamn it, he knew this was beyond absurd and way beyond the realm of cuddling, but Dean couldn't bring himself to care.

Castiel smiled and worked a hand up to lay his hand over the brand on Dean’s shoulder. “I enjoy it when you surprise me. I keep thinking that can’t happen anymore be end up being wrong about it.” He admitted. “My brothers all react poorly to surprise. Except maybe Gabriel.”

He shifted flaring his wings out slightly and resting against Dean more. “The host is in chaos over Azrael’s betrayal and it following Raphael’s death so closely. I am beginning to believe that my archangel brothers should never be trusted. Even Gabriel keeps his plans to himself.” He mused only half worried about such things. 

The lure of simply letting the archangels fight it out over this was very tempting. “We have to try and find Azrael and slow him down before he and Gabriel truly do battle. They may not be as powerful as Michael and Lucifer but they could still do great damage to the planet. IF Azrael truly has all of hell at his back…he could storm the gates of heaven….” He fell silent and thought. 

There was a gate to heaven nearby and they had nearly all of the stones. The gate in question would be the one he would choose if he were to lay siege to heaven with a host of Demons. “Dean tomorrow we should head out to get the last of the keystones. I have an idea they we will need them for.”

Castiel's hand shifted upwards and slotted against Dean's shoulder; it was always strange when someone touched the brand, directly or not, but never more so when it was Cas. The handprint didn't quite fit the angel's hand--Dean knew that it logically couldn't, since he was pretty sure Cas hadn't been wearing Jimmy like the man had ill-fittingly worn his suit at the time--but it didn't seem to matter either way.

There was a sharp zing of something, not quite sensation, and Dean was never sure if it was in his mind or an actual side effect of getting Grace-tickled or something. It was calming anyway, especially after having to sit by and watch Cas get the biblical torture treatment right in front of his eyes. 

"Great. Of course it all comes down again to two brothers fighting," he griped, twisting slightly against Castiel's side to eye the opposing bed. It was empty, and it would've been considerate and logical to move to it before he fell asleep on Castiel's mangled wings.

It looked pretty fucking bleak all the way over there though, especially compared to the extreme non-bleakness of sprawling right here, with about six feet of warm, if wounded, angel. 

Dean cleared his throat noisily and decided to stay right the hell where he was. He was in the middle of a huge yawn, which he stifled and hid against the torn lapels of Castiel's trench coat, when the angel spoke of heading out for the last damn stone in the morning.

He looked up, quirked an eyebrow and shook his head. "Seriously, man? We'll see about that shit tomorrow, but we," Dean raised a hand and pointed back and forth between Castiel's chest and his own, "are not going anywhere if you're still busted up like this. So, for now, we rest, and you and Sammy can scratch your gigantic nerd heads trying to figure out what our next move'll be in the morning."

It was Dean's best brook-no-arguments voice, and even though he knew the angel--even beat up as he was--could probably still shove his ass off this bed with a thought and poof away after the last stone on his own before Dean could blink, he still felt better about laying down some semblance of law. Even if the stern tone to his voice was probably completely obliterated by the fact that he laid his head back down on Castiel's chest and sneaked one leg to tangle between Castiel's own after he'd spoken.

"Deal?" he asked, the words muffled against the angel's coat.

Castiel chuckled softly and curled closer to Dean despite his injuries. “I can travel with injuries just fine, Dean. “ He murmured wrapping his free arm around Dean. Holding Dean something he knew he’d never tire of doing. Not when Dean fit so well against him. “Sleep now, Dean. I’ll be here when you awake.”He promised. 

He could hear Gabriel seeking Azrael throughout the host and the world. He whispered his inkling of an idea to the archangel as he listened in. Gabriel agreed and urged him to get on it as soon as possible. He would convince Dean and Sam that he was alright enough to travel. “We need to get the final stone, Dean. Then head to Winchester, New York. There is a gate way into heaven there; Azrael will need to use that to bring his forces into heaven. We can stop that with the stones.”

"Yeah, yeah, I hear you," Dean mumbled, halfway expecting to have to dodge Castiel's sudden fingers heading for his forehead. Thankfully, the arm that settled against him only draped loosely over his shoulder, and, yeah, he could get behind this. It was markedly more comfortable--and a lot warmer--than the angel's usual mind-whammy, which always left him a bit disoriented and confused.

He was still drifting to sleep though, as surely as if Cas had jabbed fingers or Grace straight into his brain, and the sound that broke out of him at the mention of traveling to New York was halfway between a tired chuckle and a yawn.

"Gate to Heaven in Winchester," he managed, shoulders shaking briefly before the yawn finally won the war for his exhausted body. "God, I hope I remember that one tomorrow." 

And that was the last thought he had as he drifted off to sleep.

When darkness took him, the dream came back, Alastair and Sam and Cas and those goddamned racks, an almost duplicate of what had happened before. Only this time Dean knew it for what it was, and for some inexplicable reason his dream self managed to come out on top. It went all a bit stupid after that, and he saved both his brother and the girl, only it was Cas and not a girl at all, and somehow milkshakes were involved, in some grubby diner where nobody even seemed to register they'd almost gotten killed.

He woke up grinning stupidly, pressed against warmth all down his front, both legs entangled in sheets and his own jeans and, apparently, a pair of dark linen slacks. 

"M'Batman and you know it, bitch," he mumbled, still half lost in the dream, though upon waking he had no idea what the hell it had been about anymore. He opened bleary eyes to find himself staring at a faceful of dark feathers, then twisted his head and found the even more awesome sight of Cas' face, not three inches from his nose. 

Cas, against whom he was pretty much welded, arms and legs more or less fused over and under the angel's side. His left arm suddenly screamed murder at him in the form of pins and needles where it'd been resting under Castiel's shoulders. 

"Hey," he groused, voice rough from sleep, slowly liberating his numb arm from the under the angel's weight. He was dimly aware that this should be awkward, that he should get up and let Sammy know that Cas hadn't died in his sleep or that they hadn't torn each other to shreds, but dammit it all, he didn't want to get up just yet.

Still, Dean pulled himself up, forced his chest away from the too-close heat of Castiel's side, and eyed the angel's wounded wing uncertainly. "Didn't hurt you, did I?"

Castiel flexed his wings slightly wincing at the pain. “No, you didn’t hurt me. Baring actively touching the break you can’t hurt me.” He said softly, sitting up when Dean did. He stared into Dean’s eyes and touched his cheek.

“Your dreams were troubling. You spoke in them, as if you were in battle.” He said trailing his hand down to cup the back of Dean’s neck. “What’s troubling you so, Dean?” He looked into Dean’s eyes concerned. He hadn’t peeked into those troubling dreams because of Dean’s issue with him getting nosey but he was curious.

"Right, that's good," Dean rasped back, turning away from the sight of the bandages around the wing--and, yeah, he'd never get used to that--closest to him only to find that Castiel had followed him upright and was now leaning closer, his head tilted those few degrees, like an inquisitive bird. It had always been just a bit endearing, though at first Dean had wrapped that up in layers of self-righteous human importance, secretly glad he could find things that the ever so perfect and powerful angels didn't understand.

Now, it just made him grin, a bit silly and loose, and he shrugged his shoulders, dismissing Castiel's question. "Nothing important, Cas. Just a dream, not even a bad one, this time." He wasn't sure how much of that was true, to be honest, but he hadn't woken up either angry or terrified, so he could easily count it as a win. And, more importantly, he almost didn't remember, something which, honestly, was goddamned refreshing after so many months of waking up to vivid details of shit he really would've preferred not remembering.

"Think there were milkshakes and burgers involved at some point," he continued, making no attempt to move away from the firm touch at the nape of his neck. "Guess it's a shame I don't remember, huh?"

Footsteps resounded beyond the door just as he was leaning into the touch of Castiel's hand, and Dean instantly knew it couldn't be anyone but Sammy; nobody was as stupidly skilled in being a shithead little cock-block as his brother.

He made absolutely no attempt to get off the bed as the door opened a fraction to knock quietly against the drawn bolt and chain. If Sam could interrupt, he could damn well deal with both he and Cas fully clothed and in the same bed.

"So, uh, it's almost nine, guys. Not that I'm complaining or anything, but you know, impending archangel fight on our hands and all," Sam's disembodied voice drifted through the cracked-open door.

Dean sighed, closed his eyes for a moment and leaned closer before he could think better of it, figuring that stealing a quick, filthy, open-mouthed kiss from Castiel was well within his rights at this point. When he drew back he stretched and stood up, planting a hand gently on the angel's shoulder just in case Cas got any ideas about jumping out of bed and getting straight back into the action of trying to stop another impending Apocalypse.

"Yeah, yeah, we're up, Sasquatch. How many cups so far?" he asked, making a quick beeline for the door to unlatch it and let his brother in.

"Coffee? Jeez, I don't know. Three, maybe?" Sam burst in, one hand clutching his laptop bag and the other almost hovering over his eyes as he peeked into the room. "Oh." He deflated a bit. "You're still dressed. Morning, Cas."

"God, really? I've said it before and I'll say it again," Dean griped without a trace of bad humor, shuffling towards the bathroom. "You two. Braiding hair and nail-polish." He closed the door behind him, clicking it shut softly and avoiding his face in the mirror because he just knew he'd be grinning like an idiot.

Back in the room, Sam traipsed closer to the free bed--it was clearly still neat as anything and hadn't been slept in--and gently dropped his bag onto it. He shot Castiel a careful, tentative smile. "I'm glad you're okay. You are, right? Okay, I mean."

Castiel chuckled and folded his wings to his back carefully. “I’m alright, Sam. Thank you for your concern.” He said sitting up on the edge of the bed. “Do you know where the next stone is located? We should head out to get it today. Then head to Winchester county New York.”

“We should stop by Bobby’s and collect the other stones as well.” He added after a moment of thought. It was going to be incredibly uncomfortable to be around all of the stones at once but once they laid them out in the right pattern around the gate it would protect heaven, them from Azrael’s army.

Sam's smile grew a fraction wider as he nodded, though the nod he shot Castiel was a bit tense. He didn't think moving Cas this soon was a good idea either, and he wasn't sure which way to go on this; for one thing, they needed an advantage over this situation like yesterday, but he was pretty certain Dean wouldn't want to risk anything else happening to the angel. And yet his brother wasn't stupid, and if the Winchesters knew one thing it was that sometimes you just had to roll with the punches and make the best of the hand you got dealt.

"So you still think the stones are important, huh? I got... Wait," he said, reaching into his laptop bag and pulling out the disc. It had seemed so strange at first, but now it just felt like any other weird supernatural tool they'd used. He overlaid the thing on the map and frowned. "New York, you said? That's weird, 'cause the last stone is already there. Some Cemetery, I think. God, pretty sure we're gonna run into a whole slew of spirits in there. Fun."

He rolled his eyes at Castiel a bit, and was shoving the map and stone disc back into his bag when Dean burst out of the bathroom, a towel slung low over his hips and his shoulders and chest reddened from what had probably been a piping hot shower. 

Dean was grinning, lazily, his face open and pleased and a damn far cry from how he'd been the night before. Sam sighed.

"Jesus, Dean, could you be any more obvious?"

"Oh, shut the hell up, Samantha. You know the personal shower time rule," Dean drawled back, slumping carefully on the bed next to where Castiel sat. He had the presence of mind to avoid jostling the angel and twisted slightly, peering at Sam from over the trailing edge of one long mass of dark feathers. "Don't tell me you let Feathers talk you into going after this stone today, bro."

Dean frowned at Sam, shuffling back and rolling slightly on his side to curl one hand over Castiel's hip. The tips of several feathers drooped and brushed against the back of his hand and he suppressed a small shiver. "Cas, come on, man. You need to rest; you can jump into a fight with Azrael like this."

"We'd drive there, Dean. Well, you two would. I think I should head to Bobby's to get the other stones and meet you up there. You can rest in the car, right Cas?" Sam interrupted, turning towards the angel with raised eyebrows. His eyes flitted down to see Dean's hand draped innocuously over Castiel's hip and he grinned.

“Dean, I don’t need to rest.” Castiel said with a touch of irritation in his voice. “I’m not human, rest will do absolutely nothing for me. Time is all it takes, the same time that I’d spend here resting as you wish me too could be spent traveling. The effects will be exactly the same.”

The angel arched a wing out to curl it around Dean almost protectively. “Further more I have no intention on jumping into another fight with Azrael, while injured. Gabriel is searching for Azrael as we speak it is very unlikely that he will risk another attempt at us while Gabriel is looking for him.” 

He sighed and allowed himself to lean against Dean.”This is more important than my well being at the moment.” He said with a shrug.

Dean would have argued the point that Cas had seemed more than 'human' enough on numerous past occasions if Sam hadn't been sitting just a few yards away and Castiel hadn't actually leaned against him. As a way to silence further protests, it was stupidly effective, especially when combined with the knowing grin that his brother sent his way when Dean practically became one with the bed as one of Castiel's wings slowly draped over him.

It wasn't a simple contact, not by any stretch of the word; the limb unfolded slowly and shuffled-shimmered its way over Dean in something that he might've called a caress if he was feeling particularly poetic. Still, it was strange to feel that buzzing warmth of touch while Sam was in the room, and predictably both brothers cleared their throats about the same time.

"Fine, fine, okay, I get it, Mister Impervious to Grievous Bodily Harm, we move as soon as we can," Dean said, almost at the same time as Sam coughed and opened his mouth.

"I'm gonna be in the car."

And with that, Sam was gone, unfolding his long body in a way that almost stank of awkwardness. Despite everything that had happened, how worried he was about just how this Apocalypse-to-be was going down, how badly Cas had gotten hurt, Dean smiled, an easy, pleased grin at his brother's expense that he knew he could get away with because Sam had pretty much just fled the room.

A few weeks ago he would've shouted something obscene at his brother--and possibly thrown a pillow at the door for good measure--but right now Dean could only grin and lean back, letting the quiet wash over him for a few more breathless minutes before the world went back to midnight chases and chaos.

"So, hey," Dean muttered, pressing back against the weight of Castiel's wing against his shoulder. "Ready to save the world? For the freakin' twentieth time again?"

He was exhausted, and worried, and sick to his stomach at the thought of throwing both Sammy and Cas into another rumble with the forces of Heaven of Hell. Somehow though, the mood didn't feel as somber as it should've been. They'd faced down worse odds before, he and Sam; they'd stared into the devil's eyes and somehow managed to end up on top, and never before had Castiel's help seemed to mean so much.


End file.
